


never seen a diamond in the flesh

by an_officer_and_a_gallagher (punk_rock_reject)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Dealing, Homophobic Language, M/M, Racist Language, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, ian grew up on the northside, it's mickey guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9485966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_reject/pseuds/an_officer_and_a_gallagher
Summary: "This is some real ghetto Romeo and Romeo shit, Gallagher."





	1. Ian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ledzippline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ledzippline/gifts).



> So, this premise has been done a billion times but I still wanted to give it a shot. Enjoy!

Clayton communicates with him almost entirely through Post-It notes.

Now, Ian doesn’t think his father plans for them to not actually see each other in person for weeks at a time, but that’s how it works out, more often than not. He gets that Clayton’s job is important, or whatever, and he’s moved beyond caring about how little time he actually spends with his father at this point, but it’s pretty ridiculous that he sees his fucking next door neighbours more than he does Clayton himself. Jacob’s rarely home, always off at some stupidly expensive retreat for whatever extra-curricular activity of the week, that he’s inevitably going to get bored of, and Lucy actively avoids looking at him some days. It’s not that she hates Ian, because she doesn’t at all, it’s just that his resemblance to his biological mother – some bipolar junkie from the Southside – upsets her. It reminds her that, no matter how much she might want him to be, no matter how much he wishes he was, he’s not her son, not really.

Jacob loves the redheaded stepchild joke, even though the dumb little prick is Ian’s mini-me.

But the Post-It notes. The seemingly unobtrusive little yellow notes that he finds stuck to the fridge, or the fruit bowl, or his bedroom fucking door. Ian fucking _hates_ them. Hates seeing Clayton’s cramped scrawl, reminding him to take his meds, or walk Sarge, or clean his room. It’s like Clayton thinks he doesn’t fucking know to do all of that without the obnoxious little _aides-mémoires_ – holy shit does he hate it when Clayton calls them that, because really? How fucking pretentious can one human being actually be? There’s one on the door of Clayton’s study – _please don’t touch any of the files on my desk_ , like Ian gives a shit about any of his business ledgers – that he utterly disregards, pushing open the door and shutting it quietly behind him. Lucy’s got one of her stress-headaches, and she’s sleeping it off down the hall, so Ian’s gotta be as stealthy as he can about this.

Clayton’s desk safe is in the bottom drawer and Ian keys in the code with practiced ease; the combination isn’t anything as trite and insignificant as one of his sons’ birthdays or something like that, oh no, it’s the date of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Jesus _Christ,_ Clayton. Ian thumbs through the wad of cash that’s in there, taking as much as he thinks he might need for what he’s about to do. Not like Clayton’s gonna notice a couple hundred missing – not when Jacob’s skimming money a grand at a time. And he’s not subtle about it either, like Ian is. He doesn’t replace most, if not all of the cash he takes, like Ian. It’s what always gets him caught – caught, but never punished. Not like Ian. Jacob seems to get away with a whole lot of shit Ian doesn’t.

He closes the door a lot more loudly than he means to this time, and winces, frozen as he waits for Lucy to emerge from his parents’ room at the end of the hall. Her sleep mask will be pushed haphazardly onto her forehead, blonde curls spilling into her eyes, and her pyjamas will be rumpled from her restless tossing and turning. She’ll be in abject misery, massaging her temples and moaning about how Ian’s woken her. But the door stays firmly shut and he can breathe again. Thankfully, the thick carpet muffles his footsteps as he slinks back down the hall and takes the stairs two at a time. Conner and Seth are waiting in the kitchen, sipping on Clayton’s expensive craft brews and tittering to themselves. They set them on the counter when they notice Ian, leaving the half-full bottles for Lucy to clear away. Pricks.

“Alright, I got it. Let’s get this done,” he tells them and they both follow him out the front door. Seth drapes an arm across Ian’s shoulders, and he resists the urge to shrug it off. The asshole’s smirking in a way that has Ian itching to smack the expression right off his face, but he resists that urge, too.

“Getting nervous, bud?” Seth inquires, with a shockingly awful attempt at innocence. Even Conner spins on his heel to walk backwards so he can roll his eyes. Ian jabs him hard in the side, both he and Conner laughing at Seth’s pathetic yelp. He pouts as he rubs at the sore spot, arm sliding off Ian’s shoulders. “We really won’t blame you if you are,” he adds, sour, and Ian rolls his eyes.

“Only thing I’m nervous about is finding you two stabbed to death when I’m done,” he drawls, slipping into the driver’s seat of Clayton’s Porsche – like he’s gonna drive his own Mercedes into the Southside, good fucking luck with that. Conner piles into the back and Seth clambers into the passenger’s seat.

“You mean finding Seth stabbed to death,” Conner pipes up cheerfully, once Ian’s pulled away from the curb, “Because you _know_ I’d leave his skinny, white ass to die.”

“Gee, thanks, Conner,” Seth scoffs, and the two fall into familiar bickering that Ian’s only half paying attention to, other than the occasional direction Seth throws out amidst his snarky exchange.

There’s already adrenaline thrumming through Ian at the thought of what he’s about to do. This stupid fucking dare. He doesn’t know why he agreed to start with – well, that’s untrue. He knows exactly why he agreed to it. He just doesn’t know why he’s actually _doing_ it. Ian had agreed to it because Seth had suggested he was too much of a pussy to do it and the challenge there had been too much for the naturally competitive redhead to ignore. That’s probably the reason Seth had issued the dare in the first place, now that the thought’s occurred to him. That, and Seth’s unseemly drug habit, and the opportunity this presents for him to feed it for free. Still, why Ian’s driving into the Southside to buy coke from “a real dealer”, to use Seth’s words, is beyond him. He could have easily bought some from Tommy McNamara, or blown him for it, and told Seth he’d gotten it from a Southside dealer, he wouldn’t have cared as long as he had something to snort. Seth doesn’t give much of a shit where his drugs come from, as long as they get him sufficiently fucked up and he can get more of them.

But it really is too late to back out now. Not only would Conner and Seth give him shit for the rest of his conceivable life, Ian sorta _wants_ to do it now, just to prove to himself that he’s smart enough, or strong enough, to make it out of an actual drug deal without getting straight up murdered. He knows he looks entirely too clean-cut, so there’s no chance of blending in, but hopefully he can exude enough of that ‘natural charisma’ his therapist is always talking about to bullshit his way through this. He’s bullshitted his way through almost two decades of life as it is, so this really shouldn’t be _too_ difficult.

“This is the place,” Seth tells him, sounding a lot more reserved now, like he’s just realising that there’s a very real chance this could go very wrong, very quickly. _Yeah, newsflash, dipshit_. He points out the convenience store, the faded awning informing Ian that he’s about to buy cocaine in the alley behind the Kash and Grab. He wonders, not for the first time, how it is that Seth knows about this place, about this dealer, but he finds that he doesn’t give a shit. He wants this done.

“Alright, circle around the block twice. Park the third time and I’ll be in the store, call the cops if I’m not.”

He ignores Conner’s muttered “will they even come to this neighbourhood?” as he gets out of the car, Seth climbing over the centre console to claim Ian’s vacated seat. Figures the pussy wouldn’t even get out of the car to switch seats. Ian adjusts his t-shirt, pulling at the hem of it before deciding that that probably just made him look even more like the anxiety-ridden, first-time drug purchaser that he is. He shoves his hands into his pockets and squares his shoulders, chin tilting up defiantly. He can do this. The money’s burning a hole in the backpack he’s got slung over one shoulder and he tries hard not to feel like there’s a target painted on his back as he stalks across the street. The Porsche’s tyres squeal as it takes off, leaving him well and truly alone.

_In for a fuckin’ penny, huh?_

There’s a guy at the other end of the alley, slouched against the wall. Ian can see smoke drifting lazily towards the sky and his own fingers itch for a cigarette. The guy whips his head around to look at him as his foot knocks into an empty bottle and Ian’s struck breathless by the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. He does a quick sweep, taking in the bulging biceps that the tight black tank top the dealer’s wearing show off nicely and the chunky silver chain around his neck draws his attention to the defined chest. Fuck, shit, the drug dealer’s fucking hot. The guy’s noticed him looking, if the way his eyebrows shoot up his forehead are any indication, and Ian covers his obvious checking out as best he can by disguising it as sizing up. He puffs out his chest a little, chin tilting up again, and the guy’s eyes narrow at the obvious challenge to his authority.

“Fuck you want, firecrotch?” he barks, pushing off the wall and throwing his shoulders back in what he clearly thinks is a threatening manner. Ian tries not to smirk when he notices how much shorter than him the dealer is – it’s easier when the insult registers and he huffs; he fucking hates redhead jokes, they make him wanna go fucking postal.

“You got anything worth my while or am I wasting my time?” he shoots back, the indignation bolstering his faux-confidence, until it stops feeling so much like bravado and more like actual self-assurance. Of course he can do this. This starts going bad, he can probably take the guy in a fight, thanks to his ROTC training. It goes alright...well, the guy didn’t whip out the gun he’s obviously got tucked into the back of his jeans and shoot him for being a fag, so who knows, right? He might score, and then he might score.

“...Okay,” the guy drawls, after he’s given Ian a onceover of his own, gaze lingering on where his t-shirt is pulled taut over his chest before his eyes flick back up to lock on Ian’s. “A’right,” he mumbles, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with the toe of his boot, “How much you want, Northside?”

 _Fuck, is it really_ that _obvious? Damn._ Ian’s caught a little off-guard, because holy shit, he hadn’t actually thought about this. He’d thought that he’d be meeting a strung-up junkie with greasy hair and a weasel face, who’d name an amount and a price. Not this fine specimen, who’s somehow managing to rock the Eastern European gangster look – seriously, all he’s missing is the cheap, knock-off designer tracksuit. Which might actually do something for Ian if his reaction thus far is any indication. “Uh, a...a gram?” Ian stutters out and the guy smirks, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a baggie full of white powder and Ian sucks in a sharp breath – fuck, this is totally working.

“That’ll be $120.”

Huh, that’s cheaper than he thought it’d be, cheaper than Tommy McNamara’s usual asking price. Ian pulls out the appropriate number of notes and holds them out, the guy snatching them from his hand. He counts out the money quickly, tossing the baggie at Ian when he’s satisfied he hasn’t been ripped off. Ian shoves it into his pocket without thinking. The guy looks up when he notices that Ian hasn’t moved and he arches a brow, waving his hand in a clearly dismissive gesture.

“Feel free to fuck off, Red, ‘less you plan on buying more—“

“It’s Ian,” he interrupts, drawing himself up to his full height and rocking towards the shorter boy – because he’s not much older than Ian himself, about a year or so – on the balls of his feet, “Not fucking _Red._ My name’s Ian. Maybe use it.”

The dealer looks like a little dumbfounded, like he can’t believe Ian had the stones to correct him about something as trivial as his name, _then_ tell him what to do. He recovers quickly, and plasters his mask of mildly pissy indifference on once more. “Good for you, _Ian._ Now, can you kindly fuck off out of my alley, ‘fore I crack your skull on the pavement for running your mouth?”

Ian can’t help himself; he snorts. “You’re not gonna do that.” He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, but he knows it’s true as the words leave his mouth. The guy’s eyebrows must be somewhere in the fucking stratosphere by now, those things flew off his forehead like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. Ian decides if he’s going to get shot, he might as well go out the same way he lives; trying to get laid. He leans in closer, lowering his voice to the low, husky register that’s never failed him before and he's praying to God won’t fail him now. “I think you like ‘em with a little mouth.”

The dealer’s mouth goes slack with shock and he recoils like Ian’s just punched him in the face. Ian also happens to notice that the front of his jeans tightens, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip at the sight of the obvious bulge. The guy tracks the movement with wide eyes, pupils blown out. Ian leans in a little closer and that seems to jar the boy out of his trance. His face twists into a sneer and he plants his hands on Ian’s chest to shove him back. “I’m not a fucking faggot—“

“Never said you were,” Ian interjects smoothly, straightening his t-shirt, “Don’t have to be gay to enjoy a hummer.” He refuses to drop the intense eye contact the two of them are maintaining, that feels like it’s starting a fire in his gut. The familiar heat is unspooling low in his belly and, emboldened by the clear turmoil on the dealer’s face, he takes another step forward. The guy sways towards him, like he can’t help it, and Ian’s hands come up to reach for him, to pull him closer, flush up against him so he can press him up against the wall and drop to his knees—

“Yo, Mickey!”

The guy – Mickey – jerks back, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. His head whips around and his hands curl into fists as he catches sight of the scruffy looking dude at the other end of the alley, who’s watching them with raised eyebrows and a knowing smirk. Mickey turns back to Ian and hisses, “Get fuckin’ gone, _Ian”_ at him. And Ian does this time, backs up so he can keep his eyes on the two as he makes a tactical retreat. “You know where I’ll be if you want another hit, Northside!” Mickey calls after him, seemingly unable to help himself, just as Ian’s about to reach the street.

He’s still grinning to himself like an idiot when Seth and Conner pile into the Kash and Grab, a few minutes later. Ian’s been flicking idly through a magazine, not taking in a single word of the inane housekeeping articles Lucy would probably fucking love and he glances up at them when he hears the sound of their sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

“Dude,” Conner breathes, looking him up and down with wide, awed eyes, “You’re alive.” Conner’s staring at him like he can’t believe he’s actually seeing him in the flesh, and Ian shoots him a toothy grin, throwing in an eyebrow waggle just for shits and giggles.

“We had our doubts,” Seth murmurs, eyes narrowing when he can’t seem to find any visible injuries – it’s like the fucker’s disappointed Ian didn’t get himself ganked. Fuck, he’s such a pissant, Ian wishes he could tell him to get fucked, permanently. But his dad’s friends with Clayton, not to mention one of his most important clients, and ruining his ‘friendship’ with Seth will fuck up that business relationship, because Seth’s the kind of pathetic little bastard that goes running to Daddy with shit like that. Ian can’t fucking stand him.

“Yeah, well, here’s your coke, asshole,” he says, probably too loudly, but the Arab dude that’s been cruising him practically since he walked in doesn’t even look up from stocking the avocadoes. And why would he, in a neighbourhood like this? He’s probably had dealers do business _in_ his store, what does he care if some rich little Northside kids brag about their big score? Plus, Ian’s pretty sure the dude wants to fuck him, which _fuck_ no, he’s got daddy issues but they ain’t that bad, so there’s that. Ian shoves the baggie into Seth’s hands, the other boy spluttering and fumbling with it as he tries to shove the drugs into his pocket.

“Guys, can we go?” Conner interrupts the brewing argument before it can start; he’s got an amazing talent for diffusing tension, something that’s come in handy many a time when it comes to Ian and Seth’s volatile relationship. “Pretty sure we’re gonna go out there and Clayton’s car’s gonna be _stripped_ if we stay in here any longer.”

He’s right, so Ian takes pity on the store owner and buys a Snickers bar, the first thing he grabs, and the three of them head out into the sweltering Chicago summer once again. There’s a group of ‘hood kids checking out the car and Ian bellows a “Hey!” that has them scattering like roaches and taking off, flipping the three older boys off over their shoulders as they go. It makes Ian and Conner chuckle, has Seth wrinkling his nose with undisguised disdain.

“You guys gonna help me snort this shit?” he inquires once they’re well on their way out of the Southside and Conner sticks his head into the front of the car, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“ _Shit_ yeah, I wanna try me some bona-fide Southside coke,” he crows – unlike Seth, Conner’s obviously getting off on the thrill of making a successful drug run to the Southside, rather than the actual drugs, which he seems rather apathetic towards most of the time.  

“Not me,” Ian mutters, staring resolutely out the windscreen and doing his best to block out Seth’s smug smirk because he’ll end up pulling over and putting Seth’s face through it if he doesn’t. “That shit’ll fuck with my meds _severely.”_ The less said about the last time he did coke on his meds, the better. He doesn’t ever want to put his parents through that shit again, he doesn’t ever want to put _himself_ through that shit again. He’s moved beyond the part of himself that needs to do hard drugs to feel good now, as Dr. Wexler would put it.

“Yeah, might counteract the whole ‘preventing mania’ thing, huh?” Conner muses, sounding genuinely thoughtful as he sits back. Seth looks geared to say something nasty about Ian’s disorder – because Seth never runs out of ways to shit on Ian for being bipolar – but Conner continues before he can. “Hey, don’t you guys have that big dinner party coming up? For all Clayton’s business partners or whatever?” he asks of Ian, tapping him on the shoulder, and Ian grimaces.

“Fuck, yeah. Surprised Mom isn’t making me do a piss test every night when I walk in the door. Haven’t been able to so much as smoke up in weeks and the party isn't for another two months.”

“Poor baby,” Conner laughs and even Seth joins in and the both of them take turns ragging on him and congratulating him on surviving his little venture into the Southside in equal measure until he pulls up in front of Seth’s place. “Bye, bitch,” Conner sing-songs and Seth doesn’t bother with a goodbye, because he’s a fucking dickhead. Ian flips off his back as he drives away.

Sarge is the one who greets Ian when he gets home, bounding down the hall and booming out his welcome. Ian snaps to attention and salutes him, the dog parking his butt and sitting up straight, just like Ian trained him to all those years ago. That had been one of Lucy’s conditions when Clayton had bought little ten-year-old Ian the German Shepherd puppy for his birthday, that he train him. He’d done a damn fine job, if he did say so himself. “Sergeant,” the redhead greets, and Sarge lets out one sharp bark in answer. Ian’s face splits into a grin. “Aw, hey, boy, c’mere!” he laughs, dropping to his knees, “C’mere, c’mere! Aw, I missed you!” he chuckles, eyes scrunching closed as he dutifully accepts the slobber all over his face. Sarge puts his paws on Ian’s shoulders, wet nose digging into Ian’s cheek.

“Ian? Is that you, honey? Are you home?”

Lucy’s voice floats down from upstairs and he gently removes Sarge from his person. “Yeah, Mom!” He straightens up just as Lucy appears at the top of the stairs, looking fresh-faced, well-rested and impeccably dressed. She beams down at him and Ian figures it’s one of those days; the ones where she can bear to look at him for more than five minutes at a time without seeing the woman who slept with her husband looking back. He’s lucky that these days come more often than the others. “What’s up?”

“Were you out with Seth and Conner, sweetie?” Lucy folds her arms on the bannister, rests her chin on them as she peers down at him with genuine interest colouring her tone. It’s enough to make Ian’s heart start marching triple-time in his chest, slamming against his ribcage and getting louder and louder until he’s sure even Lucy can hear it. Still, the half-truth rolls easily off his tongue after years of practice.

“Yeah. We were hanging out.”

And thank God that’s all the explanation his mother ever needs. Sometimes, Ian thinks Lucy knows more than she lets on, bless her heart, but she never presses him for more information than he’s willing to give. Clayton’s the same way, the two of them offering Ian as much privacy as he could ever want, which is a blessing since he’s such a naturally private person anyway. He doesn’t like bothering people with things he can handle himself, has been that way since he was little. Ian had sorted it out on his own when he was getting picked on at school – a few bloody noses and threats of worse had cleared that shit right up and not a single adult had been the wiser – and that was just the way he’d always operated.

He tilts his head, smiling and hoping it doesn’t look as sad as he thinks it probably does. “You feeling okay, Mom?”

“Yeah, honey, much better.” She makes her way down the stairs, gratefully accepting the arm Ian slides around her shoulders and uses to tuck her in against his side. Lucy lays her head on his shoulder, and lets her hand fall so she can sink her fingers into Sarge’s fur, the dog pushing his head into her touch. It makes her smile, which makes Ian’s chest ache. “You’re a good boy, Ian,” she murmurs, patting his arm, and he feels guilt well up, sick and sharp. He’s not. He’s not a good boy. He just got back from doing a fucking drug run on the Southside, he is _not_ a good boy. But Lucy doesn’t need to know that.

So, “Thanks, Mom.”

“We’re having lasagna and salad for dinner,” she informs him, a yawn interrupting her halfway through her sentence. Ian squeezes her a little before he lets her go, muttering an acknowledgement but knowing he’ll probably be sleeping through yet another ‘family’ dinner. Saves him unnecessary, unpleasant social interaction with Jacob, and a stilted conversation littered with half-truths about his day with Lucy and having to look at Clayton’s conspicuously empty chair at the head of the table. “I’ve got to run to the store, then drop some things off to Mrs. Biedermeier. Will you be alright on your own for an hour or so?” Lucy queries as she collects her car keys from their tacky little bowl on the kitchen counter – Ian bought it for her for Mother’s Day years ago.

The question’s fucking laughable, and Ian has to suck his bottom lip between his teeth to avoid actually letting out a bark of derisive laughter. He glances down at Sarge, who tilts his head to the side, tongue lolling out. “Yeah, Mom. We’ll be fine. Won’t we, buddy?” he coos, in what Lucy lovingly refers to as his ‘baby voice’, something he only uses when addressing his dog, or giving Jacob shit. Sarge barks out an affirmative and Lucy chuckles.

“Alright. I’ll try to hurry,” she assures him, pulling him down so she can kiss his forehead. “Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

The door swings closed with a sort of finality, leaving him alone in a house that’s too big once again. Well, not completely alone. He glances down at Sarge, who’s now scratching behind his ear with determination. “C’mon, bud,” he mutters, jerking his head towards the kitchen, “I’ll fix you somethin’ to eat.”

Sarge booms out an excited bark, skidding on the hardwood floor as he takes off ahead of Ian. He plants his butt next to his bowl obediently as he waits for Ian to fill it. The redhead is trying not to wrinkle his nose at the gourmet dog food shit he’s finding and he gives up the search with a disgusted sigh, almost slamming the cupboard closed. The glass rattles and he winces; Lucy will have his ass if he cracks it again. “Fuck it, you have can kibble.” Sarge doesn’t seem too bothered by the prospect of a ‘boring’ dinner. It means Ian’s gonna have to lug the heavy fucking bag across the kitchen – good weight training, anyway – but he also doesn’t have to suffer the indignity of feeding his manly as hell dog fucking _Holistic Select._

Once Sarge is chowing down happily and he’s grabbed himself an Old Style from the fridge – seriously, _fuck_ craft brews – Ian heads upstairs, kicking his door closed behind him; he usually leaves it open just enough for Sarge to be able to wiggle in if he wants, but he doesn’t want his dog walking in on what’s about to happen. He locks the door as well, just to be safe, although Lucy probably isn’t going to be home for well over an hour, Jacob will most likely not deign to grace them with his presence at all tonight and Clayton’s in Japan on a business trip. Still, better safe than sorry – he subjected his mother to some unfortunate sights during his formative years. He puts on some music in the background, the classic whack-off cover-up, which lets even his incorrigibly nosy brother know not to come a-knockin’, ‘cus the bed’s about to be a-rockin’.   

Once he’s settled himself comfortably against his pillows, jeans shimmied off and shirt flung in the general direction of his hamper, Ian lets himself start to drift, mentally sorting through his spank bank for something appropriate. His mind, unbidden, conjures the image of the dealer from earlier. Mickey. Ian huffs out a sigh through his nose as the name comes to him, and he slides a hand slowly down his stomach until he can slip it inside his boxer briefs and wrap a hand around himself. He tugs at himself lazily, eyes fluttering closed. “Mm.” Ian hums softly to himself, lips parting and head falling back as he lets himself imagine Mickey’s plush lips wrapped around him, those icy blue eyes locked on his as he brings him to the edge. “Y-Yeah,” he breathes, adding a twist of his wrist on the upstroke, just to get himself there, and it’s Mickey swallowing him down. “Ah, fuck,” he groans, back arching off the bed as he thrusts up into his own hand, “Fuck, _Mickey.”_

It’s never been this good, not when he was still picturing those sculpted commandos from his army posters, or Josh Dunbar from his lacrosse team who’d given him his first blowjob when they were fourteen. He’d blown his load embarrassingly quick then, and it’s starting to seem like he’s trying to beat his own record speed. Ian’s mortifyingly close as it is, lip bitten practically raw and heels digging into his mattress. All it takes is the image of Mickey pulling off and breathing a husky “Ian” to make him lose it completely, and he comes with a shout that might be a mangled version of Mickey’s name. The aftershocks are so intense that Ian finds himself literally shaking, has to clench his fists to make the tremors stop. “Hoooly fuck,” he croaks, chuckling to himself and running his clean hand through his hair as he fumbles for the tissues he keeps on his bedside table.  

Yeah, he’s definitely gonna have to get himself another hit of that.


	2. Mickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's day pre-Ian and post-Ian.

“Mickey!”

There’s nothing like being dragged, kicking and screaming, into wakefulness by his baby sister’s screeching. Well, nothing except for having rusty nails forcibly inserted into his ears. The only worse thing he can think of is the Early Bird Special – aka being fucking _bodyslammed_ by one or more of his brothers, which is especially traumatic when he’s scrabbling not to suffocate under Tony’s massive girth, the fat fuck. Thankfully, most of those morons are out on a run to Michigan with Terry, so he’s only got Mandy and Iggy to contend with at the moment. Don’t get him wrong, Mickey’s only ever really happy when it’s the three of them in the house, considering they were the closest growing up, but his siblings drive him right up the fuckin’ walls most of the time.

Like when Mandy comes barrelling into his room with a storm in her eyes and her teeth bared in a snarl, like she’s ready to throw down. Knowing his sister, she most likely _is_ ready to tear out his entrails and make a necklace out of ‘em, for something he isn’t aware that he’s done at all. Iggy appears at Mandy’s shoulder, grinning like an idiot, and Mickey only has a moment to think _fuck, he’s up early, it’s not even noon,_ before Mandy’s on him.

“Get the fuck up, fuckhead!” she bawls, punching any part of him within her reach, and he growls, attempting to throw her off. But she’s pinned his legs to the bed to better pummel the shit out of him, Iggy almost choking on his laughter as he watches the very one-sided beatdown from the relative safety of the doorway. Mickey actively tries to avoid hitting Mandy, because he always ends up trying to awkwardly apologise until she smacks him across the back of the head and tells him to quit, but the bitch is asking for it right now. Who the fuck attacks a man while he’s sleeping? That’s just wrong.

“Fuck off, skank! How the fuck am I supposed to get up with your heavy ass sitting on me!” he spits, lurching forward and going in for a titty twister, the only guaranteed way to get Mandy to back off. She snarls a curse, fucking _growls_ at him, before grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking as hard as she possibly can.

“What did Dad tell you?” she yells in his face and his nose scrunches in confusion as he tries to pry her fingers out of his hair, wracking his brain to remember just what it was that their father was supposed to have told him. Terry spews out a lot of bullshit, most of which he tries to ignore, so it’s harder than it should be to call anything relevant to mind. Plus, it’s _really_ hard to think when Mandy’s trying to rip his fucking scalp off.

“Ow! Fuck the police?” he tries as she finally releases him and sits back on her haunches, glaring at him sullenly.

“No titty twisters now that I’m a C-cup!” she huffs and Mickey grimaces; for a start, he doesn’t need to hear anything about his little sister’s tit size, ever, and for another thing, that’s a fucking blatant lie. He tells her so.

“C-cup? Bitch, you wish.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, pretty features twisting into an ugly sneer as she delivers another brutal punch to his arm. “Like you know anything about tits,” she adds as a snide afterthought.

Another reason he prefers Mandy and Iggy’s company – they’re the only siblings who know that he’s gay. Know, and don’t fucking care. Once Mickey had finally found the balls to come out to the two of them, figuring they were the siblings least likely to bash his fucking head in for being a fag, he’d been shocked and more than a little offended by their complete non-reactions. Mandy had rolled her eyes with a dry “duh, dickhead” and Iggy had shrugged, like Mickey hadn’t just shared the most secret fucking part of himself with the asshole. He’d yelled at them for being blasé shitheads about the whole thing for a while, then settled down and took turns with Iggy at getting annihilated by Mandy at Need For Speed.

“Get the fuck up, assface,” Mandy grumbles, climbing off the bed after one last hard punch to his shoulder, “You gotta go out dealing with Iggy, since I have to pick up an extra shift at the diner so they don’t shut off the fucking power. _Again.”_

“What’re we moving?” He’s all business now that he knows he’s got a job to do and his eyes flick over to Iggy as his brother pushes off the doorway with a movement that’s all his personal brand of lazy grace. “Pot? Coke?” He’s hoping for pot, since weed is always an easy sell, but he’ll settle for coke, since that’s not exactly hard to shift either. Mickey’s just really hoping it’s not crack, because he doesn’t have the patience to deal with strung-out methheads looking for a score, not to mention the fact that he hates the shit, can barely stand having it in the house.

“Coke,” Iggy confirms, tossing Mickey’s share at him. He frowns, glancing back at Iggy to make sure that’s all, because there isn’t much. “Dad took the rest with him to Michigan. Gotta shake the fucking Mexicans down for more, but none of our asshole brothers will go. Pussies.”

“You’re not exactly champing at the bit to head over there yourself, Ig,” Mandy scoffs, elbowing her brother out of the way as she stalks out of the room. Mickey can’t fucking blame him, the Mexicans are dickheads, but they’re dickheads who pack more heat than any of them are comfortable with. He’ll have to give Damon a call, see if he can avoid the inevitable, which is going down there himself. Iggy fucks off with a grunt, giving Mickey twenty minutes to shower and dress himself in semi-clean clothes before he comes crashing back into the room, throwing a gun onto his bed and hollering at him to move his ass.

“Keep your fuckin’ shirt on!” Mickey snaps, accepting the breakfast bagel Mandy shoves into his hand as she ushers the two of them out the door, slamming it shut behind her but not bothering to lock it. No one, but no one, is stupid enough to even enter the Milkovich House of Horrors, let alone steal from it. “What time you finish?” Mickey calls after her, walking backwards so he can keep her in sight as they head in opposite directions.

“Late!” she yells, without looking back, “I’ll bring home dinner!”

Mickey and Iggy talk shit as they head for the L station, getting off after one stop and shoving each other down the stairs, laughing like idiots. Iggy flips him off fondly as he heads off to his usual corner, about half a block away, and Mickey ducks into what’s become his alley, behind the Kash and Grab, the convenience store he likes to hit up occasionally, just to keep the towelhead who owns it on his toes. A few of his regulars stop by, and Mickey’s moved quite a bit of product in a fairly short amount of time, not that he’s got a lot of product to move. He’s making fuck-all money, $60 a gram on average, more if he can scam or scare a particularly jumpy junkie out of it, but it’s not enough. If they’re getting to the point where ComEd is switching off the fucking power, they’re gonna need a lot more to pay the electric this month. Fuck it, they’re probably two months behind as it is.

He’s drawn out of his musing – and shit, anyone could have got the drop on him if he was that fucking distracted – by the sound of a bottle clattering at the other end of the alley, his head whipping up. There’s a fuckin’ redheaded giant gaping at Mickey like he’s some kinda hot shit – which he is, fuck you very much – and Mickey knows instantly what kind of asshole he is. He’s one of those little Northside pricks who like to come to the Southside to get their jollies off buying from a “real” dealer. The expensive skate shoes, obviously designer graphic tee and general aura of smug superiority are all dead giveaways. The little shit’s ogling him without shame and Mickey’s eyebrows shoot skyward; this kid can’t be stupid enough to actually be checking him out right now, there’s no way. He must realise his mistake, because Red puffs out his, admittedly impressive, chest and his chin tilts up in what’s either a show of false bravado or actual defiance. Oh, Mickey’s not gonna let this shit slide, no way.

“Fuck you want, firecrotch?” he barks, pushing himself off the wall with the kind of predatory grace he reserves for fights or fucks. It looks like this might be the former, as much as he might want it to be the latter – Mickey’s got eyes, alright? He’s not unaware that the redhead isn’t unattractive. He sees the exact moment his little insult has registered with the other, because Red goes from trying to supress a smirk, to scowling like Mickey’s just called his mother a whore. The little huff the ginger lets out almost makes him want to laugh.

“You got anything worth my while or am I wasting my time?” the kid – and okay, maybe the dude’s not that much younger than him, maybe Mandy’s age – replies, sounding genuinely confident now, since apparently Mickey’s attempt at threatening him has only bolstered his resolve. It’s...yeah, alright, it’s impressive, Mickey can respect a guy with enough balls to look him in the eyes, see the very real threat of excessive violence and stand his ground anyway. Reminds him of Mandy, she’s not scared of him either. Of course, Mickey’s unsure of whether or not Red’s noticed the Glock he’s got tucked into his waistband, but if he has his cockiness is even more admirable. Or maybe just more ill-advised.

“...Okay,” Mickey concedes, drawing the word out as he gives Red a proper onceover. Fuck, he’s built. Mickey has to make a conscious effort not to let his mouth water at the sight of those fuckin’ arms, and he probably lingers on the hard chest for a dangerous amount of time, considering where they fucking are right now. He has to remind himself that he’s on the fucking _Southside_ and if someone walks by and sees him panting over this guy, he’s gonna get his ass beaten severely, maybe even killed. He drags his eyes back up to the other’s, struck by the vibrancy of the green staring right back at him. “A’right,” he mumbles, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and letting it drop to the ground, squashing it out without thought. Mickey just can’t seem to tear his eyes away. “How much you want, Northside?” 

Mickey can see the little half-second flicker of panic on the other’s face as he realises just how blatantly he’s displaying his area code and he _knows_ he can milk this guy for whatever cash he’s got in that faggy little backpack of his. He’s already got a plan for how much he’s going to charge, regardless of what Red asks for. He’s probably used to those private school fucks who charge out the ass, anyway. Probably brought way more dough than he actually needs. “Uh, a...a gram?” he stutters out, visibly knocked off kilter for the first time during this whole exchange. Mickey lets his lips curl into a slow smirk, reaching into his pocket for the right amount.

“That’ll be $120,” he tells him, throwing out the price he usually charges for an 8 ball, and shit, the redhead’s fumbling for the money like he can’t pull it out fast enough. Mickey snatches them out of his hand, counting quickly to make sure he’s not being short-changed, tossing the coke at the dude when he’s certain it’s all there. He’s half expecting a fucking thank you, or something fuckin’ stupid like that, or for the guy to hightail it out of the alley with his score, back to where his little friends are undoubtedly parked in their fancy car to gloat about getting away with it. Mickey’s _not_ expecting the dude to be still standing there, like an idiot, when he glances up. “Feel free to fuck off, Red,” the nickname he’s been using in his head slips out without thought, “’less you wanna buy some more—“

“It’s Ian. Not fucking _Red._ My name’s Ian. Maybe use it.”

No fuckin’ way. Holy shit, there’s _no_ way this dude actually just a) interrupted him, b) _corrected_ him or c) was stupid enough to blurt out his real name to a drug dealer he’s just met and potentially ticked off. And not only was the guy—Ian ballsy enough to do all that, but he’d also drawn himself up to his full height – an enviable couple of inches taller than Mickey himself – in what appears to be an attempt to loom over Mickey. He tries hard to school his features back to indifference, but he knows some of his irritation must be leaking through. “Good for you, _Ian,”_ he sneers, “Now can you kindly fuck off out of my alley, ‘fore I crack your skull on the pavement for running your mouth?”

Ian _snorts_ at him. The little shit is _amused_ by his threat. “You’re not gonna do that.” Oh, Mickey’s gonna kick his ass. It might leave him with blue balls, but he’s gonna be leaving Ian black and blue. His eyebrows shoot upwards as the other continues, seemingly unperturbed by the fact Mickey’s seconds away from grabbing a fistful of that offensively orange hair and introducing his face to Mr. Brick Wall. He gets momentarily distracted by the thought of how good his fingers would look tangled in Ian’s hair, soft strands brushing against the warning inked onto his knuckles, and he almost misses the fact that Ian’s leaned in closer, that his voice has dropped to a husky register. “I think you like ‘em with a little mouth.”

_Fuck._

It takes everything he’s got in him not to groan out loud. He knows for a fact that his mouth drops open with shock, because he cannot _believe_ that this is happening right now. He jerks his head back, on instinct, but he can’t bring himself to move his feet. Shit, he’s fucking hard, that’s...that’s not good. Ian’s obviously noticed that as well, because his eyes drop to Mickey’s crotch and his tongue peeks out of his mouth, to wet his bottom lip. Fucking _Jesus._ He can’t help but watch, transfixed. Ian, like a fucking predator sensing a moment of weakness from his prey, risks another step forward and that does it. Mickey shakes off the trance he’s fallen into and shoves Ian back, hard. How much he hates himself for wanting to have his hands back on Ian almost immediately fuels the venom in his voice when he spits, “I’m not a fucking faggot—“

And Ian interrupts him _again._ “Never said you were,” he answers, smooth, and he straightens up his t-shirt where Mickey’s scrunched it up. Mickey wants to fucking rip the thing off, get a good look at all that muscle it’s doing a piss-poor job of hiding. “Don’t have to be gay to enjoy a hummer.” And shit, he wants it. He wants it bad. He wants to lean back against the wall, scrabble to get his belt off, drop trou and let Ian go to fucking town right there in the alley, where anyone can see. Wants to run his fingers through the fiery locks and hold on like his fucking life depends on it. Ian moves towards him again and Mickey sways forwards, like Ian’s some kind of fucked up magnet that’s pulling him in—

“Yo, Mickey!”

_Fucking Iggy._

He’s going to bounce his brother’s head against the concrete, if only to wipe that smug, knowing grin off his face. His hands curl into fists at his sides and he’s fucking furious with himself, all of a sudden, for letting himself get so swept away in all this shit. Mickey’s fucking lucky that it was only Iggy that stumbled on this little ‘moment’, because if it was anyone else, Mickey would probably already have a mouthful of broken, bloody teeth and bruised knuckles. He hisses, “Get fuckin’ gone, _Ian,”_ and is relieved when Ian does. He physically can’t stop himself from calling after him, though. “You know where I’ll be if you want another hit, Northside!” And he tries to tell himself it’s only because he’d been able to fleece so much money out of the redhead.

Iggy knows better than that though, knows _him_ better, and Mickey lashes out with a clenched fist as his brother goes to ruffle his hair. Iggy lets out a satisfying grunt of pain, clutching at his side, and glares at him. “Fuckin’ fine, bitch. Next time I’ll let you get busted with a dick in your mouth.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snarls, turning and stomping out of the alley. Iggy trails behind, whistling a jaunty little tune to himself, and Mickey knows the dickhead’s got something to say and it’ll be better in the long run if he gets it out of his system now. “Spit it out, motherfucker,” he throws over his shoulder, Iggy jogging so that he can catch up to walk beside him, keeping pace easily with his longer legs. He knocks their shoulders together companionably, lowering his voice so he won’t be overheard.

“He was pretty hot.”

“Oh, _fuck_ off!” Mickey cries, shoving his brother away from him and scowling when Iggy bursts into laughter, “Your sick attempts at relating to me are fucking horrendous.” _Yeah, no shit he was hot,_ is what he wants to say instead but doesn’t, because his brother was just yanking his chain, and doesn’t actually want to talk shit about guys with him. Mandy’ll probably want to, when Iggy opens his fuckin’ trap and blurts out Mickey’s private business, like he always does. But fuck that, Mickey might be gay but he ain’t no bitch. He’s not gonna sit around and gossip about who’s dick he wants to jump on. It’s bad enough that he has to fucking _listen_ to Mandy list off all the dudes she blew in the bathroom or whatever at school, he’s not gonna participate in that shit. “How much money you make?” he demands, to take his mind off of this very disturbing train of thought, and to bring his brother’s attention back to the task at hand.

“Uh...” Iggy pulls out a wad of cash, thumbing through it quickly, mouth moving as he counts quicker than even Mickey can, “Couple hundred. You?”

“’bout the same,” he mutters, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jeans, “Scammed Northside out of twice what he owed me. Rich prick didn’t even think about it, just handed over a couple bills.”

“Huh.” Iggy rubs at his wispy scruff, eyes scrunching in thought. “Bet you could really clean up if he came around again. And, uh, if he ca—“

“I’ll put you in the _fucking_ ground,” Mickey snarls, absolutely meaning it. Well, not really, but still. Iggy’s gay jokes are usually slightly more tasteful than that. No. No, that’s a lie. They aren’t. He just normally has the good sense to make sure he’s on the other side of the room when he makes them, near the door or any other possible escape route. Mickey glares at his brother, who’s grinning like a fucking idiot, until he’s sure Iggy’s gotten the message; he’s not playing.

 _“Came!”_ Iggy hollers and Mickey spits a curse as he takes off after him, almost catching him on the stairs and almost getting crushed when the doors of the L nearly close on him as he dives inside the train after Iggy.

They roughhouse for most of the short journey, spilling out onto their station with raucous laughter and plenty of insults. They race back to the house, Mickey’s chain smoking habit catching up with him as he doubles over on the porch, practically wheezing. Iggy doesn’t fare much better. Mandy’s home, the smell of reheated leftovers greeting them as they crash through the front door.

“Jesus, you two are in a good mood,” she drawls, casting a gimlet eye over the both of them as she plates up their reject lasagna (“It’s not fucking _reject_ lasagna, dickhead, it’s _leftover.”_ ) and oven chips. “Make enough to pay the electric?”

“Yeah.”

“Mickey made a friend.”

Iggy’s a fucking dead man, Mickey decides. He’s going to suffocate him with a pillow during the night, or slip some rat poison into his food. Maybe he’ll sew his mouth shut so he can never plague Mickey with the sound of his voice again. He’s lucky Mickey’s already wandered over to get himself and Mandy a couple of beers. Iggy wants one, he can drag his own lazy to the kitchen to get it. That’s what he fuckin’ gets for ratting Mickey out so quick.

“Oh?” Mandy’s face splits into a shit-eating grin Mickey knows all too well and she carries their plates over, Iggy snatching his out of her hands eagerly and nearly getting himself stabbed with a fucking fork for his trouble. “What’s his name? How far’d you two go?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mandy,” Mickey complains, throwing himself onto the couch beside Iggy, who’s already busy stuffing his face. He doesn’t have the energy for this third degree bullshit. He just wants to eat his shit lasagna and burnt oven chips in peace, maybe watch some Family Feud and listen to his siblings bellow their answers at the TV. “Don’t fuckin’ start.”

“They didn’t do shit,” Iggy pipes up and Mandy makes a mocking, cooing sound of disappointment, which Mickey kicks her in the shin for, narrowly avoiding his sister’s swift and deadly retribution in the form of the pointy end of a fork. God, she’s stabby tonight. “Didn’t get the chance to.”

“Sucks.” Mandy doesn’t sound very sincere about that, not even tearing her eyes away from where she’s picking at her dinner. “Was he hot?”

“Smokin’,” Iggy replies and Mickey groans, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Mandy’s eyes are sparkling with interest now. She’s probably leaning forward in her chair, plate set aside and elbows braced on her knees so she can give this new piece of scandalous gossip her prompt and full attention. He sneaks a peek and yup, just like he thought. Nosy bitch can never just mind her own business.

“Are you sure he was gay?” she demands, embarrassingly eager, and Mickey barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes so hard they get stuck in the back of his head. It’s a Herculean effort on his part.

“Flaming,” Iggy confirms with a grim nod, Mandy’s face visibly falling, “And I ain’t just talkin’ about his hair. What is it with you and redheads, Mick?” He shakes his head, as if in genuine bewilderment and not pure, unadulterated jackassery. He starts counting off the names on one hand. “Connie DeMarco, before you came out, Trent Malloy, now Northside—“

“Whoa, wait, Mickey’s got a thing for a _Northside_ boy?” Mandy sounds positively fucking gleeful now and Mickey just wants to die, honestly. He’d be _real_ happy if a piece of plane fell out of the sky and landed on him, like what almost happened to Batty Sheila that one time. He remembers hearing about that from Karen, remembers laughing about it. Iggy’d probably get a kick out of seeing it happen to Mickey.

“I don’t got a thing for nobody!” he snaps, fidgeting under Mandy’s intense scrutiny. He’s tempted to grab her nose piercing and rip it right out when she scoffs, takes a long pull on his beer to supress the urge. Despite his vehement denial, Mickey can’t deny that Ian hasn’t strayed very far from his thoughts since he watched the redhead walk away, but his brother and sister absolutely do not need to know that. They’d give him shit for the rest of his _life_.

“You so do,” Iggy snickers, nudging his brother in the ribs and receiving a glare that would probably make a lesser man shrivel up and die on the spot, but Milkoviches are made of sterner stuff. Plus, Iggy’s been getting the same glare from Mickey since Mickey was about _three_. “You looked ready to suck his dick right there.”

Mickey wants to be snide and petty and point out that it was the other way around, actually, but that probably wouldn’t gross Iggy out so much as it would likely just embarrass the shit out of Mickey. “Shut up, asshole,” is what he says, and Mandy and Iggy both laugh at him, which only serves to piss him off. It doesn’t help that the tips of his ears feel hot and that his pale complexion makes it impossible to hide his flush. “Fuck both of you, I don’t need this,” he grits out, getting ready to stalk off to his room in a huff, but Mandy rolls her eyes at his little temper tantrum. She grabs his shirt and pulls him back down before he can leave.

“Settle down, princess—“

“Yeah, untwist your panties—“

“Shut the fuck up, Iggy,” Mandy snaps, glaring at him, before turning a consoling smile back on her favourite brother, “We were just ripping on you, man. You two give me shit about guys all the fucking time, it’s nice to be able to give it back once in a while.”

That’s fair, even if Mandy does bring it on herself, in his opinion. He nearly has an apoplexy every time she swans out of the house dressed like a fucking hooker. Mandy tells him he’s being a dickhead about it, but she’s his baby sister, his _only_ sister, he’s allowed to be as overprotective as he damn well wants. They might not be as close as they had been when they were little but Mickey would be dammed if he didn’t keep an eye out for her. He’d had a reputation in elementary school for kicking the shit out of the little bitches who had shit to say about Mandy, until she’d started to do it herself, and he’d still go to bat for her, _does_ still go to bat for her. He just wishes she’d tone the fuck down with the eye makeup and short skirts, makes his job a lot harder than it needs to be.

“Whatever,” he grunts, taking another swig of his beer and staring pointedly at the TV, indicating that this conversation is very much over. His siblings don’t seem to get the fuckin’ message, because they keep bugging him about it until he flips them off and stomps out of the room. He slams his door so hard that it rattles in its frame, just so those shitheads know they’re on his bad side for now. Won’t stop Mandy from barging in later and demanding that he smoke up with her, but he’ll probably have cooled off by then. Iggy’s gonna get his nose broken if he decides he wants to join them though, and not only because he’d be intruding on Mickey and Mandy’s _thing._ Nah, Mickey’s still pissed with him for opening his fat fucking mouth about Ian in the first place. Shit, it’s not like he’s got some kind of queerbo crush on him or anything, the kid was just easy on the eyes, that’s all.

Mickey tries to shake himself out of the mood he’s in, deciding to run himself a shower. If he happens to get himself off to the thought of strong arms holding him firmly against a hard chest, that’s his fuckin’ business.  

 


	3. "Bonding"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Jacob do a little 'brotherly bonding'.

“This is fucking obscene.”

Ian resists the urge to roll his eyes at his brother’s incessant complaining and pointedly ignores Jacob as he continues to beat the shit of the punching bag. Jacob’s grunting with the impact every time, nearly getting knocked backwards by the force of Ian’s blows, and he’s been bitching about how early it is since they left the house, an hour ago. Ian had gotten _real_ sick of it within the first ten minutes, but he’s adept at tuning out—

“ _Ian,_ ” Jacob whines, sounding like a seven-year-old instead of the seventeen-year-old he actually is, and Ian has to grit his teeth against a string of explosive expletives that will absolutely get him kicked out of his favourite gym. “Are you even listening to me?” Jacob demands when he just gets a non-reaction from his brother, jerking his head away from the bag as Ian lands another particularly brutal punch. “Ian, I _said_ —“

“I asked. You said you wanted to come. No one forced you,” Ian reminds his brother, teeth clenched together so hard his jaw starts to ache. This is such bullshit; Ian goes to the gym to work his frustration out on inanimate objects so he doesn’t pick fights during the day, not to get even more pissed off and liable to start something. Jacob’s invading one of _his_ spaces, and it’s not okay. He wishes he hadn’t asked, wishes he’d just walked right on by when he’d seen his brother slumped at the breakfast bar, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. Jacob must see that he’s seriously pushing his luck, because he decides to push it even further.

“Mom’s been on my ass about getting in that quality ‘brotherly bonding’.” Ian can hear the scoff in his brother’s voice, and honestly, it is justified. Lucy’s started riding him about calling Jacob his brother, rather than his stepbrother, and ‘making an effort’, which means doing more than just tolerating Jacob’s presence and actively engaging with him on a personal level – all Lucy’s words, of course. The prospect is nauseating to Ian, but he’ll do it, for Lucy. He figures he owes her for being a shit about it these past couple years. “And since the thought of going for a run with you at the asscrack of dawn literally makes me want to kill myself and we have no coinciding interests whatsoever, going to the gym with you was my only option.”

Ian lets himself drop out of the proper stance, shakes out his stiff arms and wipes sweat from his forehead. He’s not gonna get anything else done today. Jacob looks relieved about not having to stand there and let Ian beat the shit out of him by proxy anymore and he tosses the towel he’s got slung over his shoulder at Ian, who snatches it out of the air easily. He uses it to wipe the sweat that’s stinging his eyes away and flings it back at Jacob, whose entire face screws up in disgust. “You’re the worst,” he tells Ian dispassionately, and Ian smirks.

“Don’t let Mommy Dearest hear you say that. We’re supposed to be ‘bonding’, remember?”

Jacob just grumbles under his breath, which means they’re back to their usual method of communicating for the day; grunts, monosyllabic replies and inappropriate hand gestures behind their parents’ backs. They don’t speak on the walk home, nor when they sit down to eat breakfast with Lucy and Clayton, who is actually fucking home for once. Jacob and Lucy fall into an animated conversation about the looming dinner party, Jacob’s upcoming soccer camp and some girl Jacob’s banging that he thinks he might be in love with. Yeah, more like he’s in love with sticking his dick in her. Ian’s seen how Jacob is with girls, and he knows that this one – Alicia? Amy? Something with an A – won’t last much longer. She won’t even make it to the dinner party, which Jacob and Ian are both allowed to bring a plus one to, if only to spare themselves the agony of having to interact with Clayton’s co-workers’ kids. Ian’s not particularly interested in being drawn into that conversation, because all of that bores him to fucking tears, so he focuses all his attention on scarfing down his bacon and eggs, which are really good, like they always are. He almost misses Clayton speaking to him entirely.

“So, Ian...” his father starts tentatively, with that cautiously hopeful look on his face that means that Ian’s either going to have to throw him a bone or feel like an asshole about it all day. Fuck it, might as well suck it up.

“Yeah, Dad?” he mutters, shovelling a forkful of egg into his mouth so he can avoid saying anything more, at least for a little while. Clayton lights up like Ian’s just given him his birthday, Father’s Day and Christmas presents in one. It’s a little pathetic, actually, but Ian figures Clayton’s trying, so he can’t blame him.

“How’s lacrosse? And your ROTC? Your mom tells me you got promoted?” The words tumble out of Clayton’s mouth in an eager rush, with the desperation of a man who’s realised he has something to make amends for. Ian tries not to grimace.

He shrugs, poking at his bacon with his fork, tearing the fat off and pushing it to the other side of the plate. The tines dragging across the porcelain makes an obnoxious screeching noise Lucy usually chastises him for, but she’s too caught up in passionately relaying her plans for the dinner party to a now disinterested Jacob. Jacob, who’s so obviously eavesdropping that Ian has to fight the urge to kick him, _hard,_ under the table. He actually finds himself wishing his brother was a little _more_ self-absorbed, so he wouldn’t be so invested in knowing Ian’s fucking business all the time. “Lacrosse is fine. We didn’t lose a game all year. And, uh, yeah. Got promoted. Had a ceremony for it, or whatever.”

“You’re keeping both for your senior year?”

He shrugs and spears a piece of bacon. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

Clayton frowns, looking concerned, and Ian’s stomach clenches. He knows that face. That’s Clayton’s fucking ‘I’m about to say something you probably won’t like’ face. Ian sets his fork down, ready to push his chair away from the table and flee back upstairs because he doesn’t need this shit this early in the morning. The last time he saw that fucking face, Clayton was forcing him to take the lock off his door and telling him ‘we’re only worried about you hurting yourself’, like Ian was some kind of headcase. Of course, he’s realised since then that he really kind of was at the time, and that Clayton had been coming from a place of genuine worry and love, but he’d still resented being treated like a child and his relationship with Clayton had taken a huge hit for a _long_ time. That face never preceded anything _good_. “I’m just worried that you’re going to be pushing yourself too hard, trying to balance all your schoolwork _and_ lacrosse _and_ ROTC.”

Ian relaxes back into his chair, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. It’s still damp from the shower he had before breakfast. “It’s fine, Dad. It’s all good for my WestPoint application and I’m supposed to be proving that I _can_ manage all of it. I don’t want to quit any of it, anyway.”

He sees Lucy tense up out of the corner of his eye, the way she always does when he brings up WestPoint or his plans of joining the army. He knows how both she and Clayton feel about the whole thing, but it’s his fucking dream, he’s not gonna give it up just because his parents disapprove. Ian pointedly ignores the placating hand Clayton reaches out to lay on Lucy’s arm and goes back to his food, clearly signalling to his father that the conversation’s over.

“If you’re sure, kiddo,” Clayton mutters, obviously getting the message.

Ian tries to ignore Jacob’s quiet sniggering but can’t resist slamming his elbow into his brother’s ribs as he gets up from the table, using years of practice to disguise it as an accident. Jacob’s wheezy grunt is _awfully_ satisfying. His brother trailing after him into the kitchen and up the stairs, however, is not. Ian turns and blocks Jacob’s way as the younger boy makes to follow him into his room. “What the fuck, man?” he demands and Jacob rolls his eyes.

“We’re supposed to be ‘bonding’, douchebag. So lemme in your room so we can hang out, or whatever.” He explains it like he would to a petulant four-year-old and Ian scowls, mentally debating on how he can tell Jacob to fuck right off without using that exact phrasing, since Lucy’s ascending the stairs and can hear every word.

“I’m not hanging around the house today, got some errands to run,” Ian admits grudgingly, deciding that partial, non-incriminating honesty is the best policy sometimes. Like when your mother is watching you like a fucking hawk and you’re fighting the impulse to shove your younger brother down the stairs, for instance. Ian’s just hoping and praying that Jacob doesn’t decide to invite himself along because this isn’t the kind of ‘errand’ Ian needs company for.

Ian’s proud of himself for having waited a week before deciding that he needs to see Mickey again. A long, boring-ass week filled with sleepless nights spent tormenting himself with thoughts of too-blue eyes and wicked smirks. Seth had invited him over last night to snort the coke Ian had bought, despite Ian having already told him that he doesn’t _do_ coke anymore about a million times, and Ian had said no, but had been all too eager to volunteer himself for the task of getting more. So, it’s off to the Southside today, back to the alley behind the Kash and Grab, to do a good deed for his friend. The fact that he’ll get to see Mickey, hear his voice again, is just an added bonus, and not at _all_ the reason he’s going in the first place. He most certainly didn’t dress up – or down, rather – for the occasion. Lucy’s been threatening to throw out his wash-faded, wonderfully soft green t-shirt for years, but she’s never gone through with it, and the jeans he’s got on are genuinely ripped, rather than artfully distressed. He may or may not have even dug out an old pair of Converse from his wardrobe. They’re probably the most Southside clothes he owns and he figures they’ll go over better than anything else in his wardrobe.

“Oh. Well. Guess we’ll hang out another day, then.” Jacob doesn’t sound the least bit disappointed and Ian supresses a smirk when he notices the frown Lucy’s got directed at her youngest son. He almost wants to stick around to hear her chew him out, but the allure of the Southside is too strong.

“Yeah. Sure, man.” Just to spite Jacob, he stops to kiss Lucy’s forehead and receive a pat on the cheek and a soft smile. “Bye, Mom. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Alright, sweetheart. Have a good day.”

She waits until Ian’s halfway down the stairs before starting in on Jacob, who hasn’t managed to retreat to his room in time to avoid the scolding, and Ian smirks to himself, scratching Sarge behind the ears when the dog pads over to him, curious to see what his human’s doing. “See ya later, bud. Hopefully I won’t need to lock you out tonight.” Sarge whines, as if he understands exactly what Ian’s talking about. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that, buddy. Now, go keep an eye on Mom for me. Keep her company while Dad locks himself in his office all day.” Sarge barks once and takes off up the stairs, probably having heard the word ‘Mom’ and knowing who to look for. Ian laughs quietly to himself, grabbing Clayton’s keys out of the bowl. The Post-It notes catch his eye and he jots down a quick _borrowing the car – Ian_ , in what might be somewhat of a passive-aggressive move, since Clayton knows just how Ian feels about the fucking Post-Its.

He’s antsy and fidgety during the half-hour drive, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, knee bouncing and lip bitten practically raw. Jesus Christ, he’s acting like a schoolgirl with her first crush, about a _drug dealer_ he’s met _once_. A really hot drug dealer, but still. Ian’s always had...questionable taste in guys, and maybe he’s got a thing for bad boys, sue him. Mickey might turn out to be a really nice guy, once Ian gets to know him, and holy shit he’s thinking about ‘getting to know’ Mickey. God, he’s fucking hopeless. The fact that he almost trips in his haste to get out of the car is probably a testament to that.

He’s foregone the backpack today, has just got a roll of cash in his pocket, and he feels more like his usual, confident self as he saunters across the street and ducks into the alley. He knows exactly what he’s doing now, which might be putting a bit of extra swagger into his step. Ian is sorely disappointed to find not Mickey waiting for him, but the scruffy dude that interrupted their moment. The guy looks like someone worked him over real good; busted lip, a cut above his black eye, huge bruise on his cheek. He’s definitely lost a fight, pretty recently if the dried blood crusted on his collar is any indication. Ian falters, taking a hesitant step back, but the guy’s noticed him and he shakes his head, gesturing Ian over.

“C’mon, Red, I don’t bite.”

“It’s Ian.” It slips out before he can help it and the guy’s lips twitch upwards. This dude seems a lot friendlier than Mickey and Ian wonders how they know each other. Friends, maybe? But...no, they’ve got the same eyes, must be brothers. Yeah, he can see the resemblance now that he’s looking for it.

“Of course it is. You want another gram?”

Ian shakes his head, biting his lip. “You, uh, you got any pot?” Fuck getting Seth his coke, Ian wasn’t even here for that shit in the first place. Might as well pick something up for himself, since it looks like he’s not gonna be picking _Mickey_ up today.

“Yeah, man. $25 for a joint. How many you want?”

He’s definitely being overcharged for this weed but whatever, right? A joint’s a joint. He forks over a hundred, smiling tentatively. He probably would have been spitting teeth out if he’d smiled at Mickey, but this guy just huffs out a laugh and hands over five joints. “Uh, I only paid for—“

“You get the ‘my brother wants to bone you’ discount,” the guy interrupts, smiling wryly, and he punches Ian’s shoulder lightly. Ah, so he is Mickey’s brother. And Mickey’s apparently interested enough in Ian that he wants to fuck, which was kind of Ian’s short-term goal, at least for today. Ian opens his mouth to ask where Mickey actually is but Mickey’s brother beats him to it. “Mick’s at work right now, but he should be back during the week sometime.”

Ian’s tempted to push his luck a little more, since he’s already gotten this lucky, and ask where Mickey works so he can swing by, maybe bring Mickey some lunch. It only takes him about a second to realise that that would probably be super fucking creepy, and make him come across as way more stalkerish than he really is. Not that he’s stalkerish at all...He clears his throat, scuffing a sneaker against the ground.

“Oh. Cool. Thanks, uh...?”

“Iggy.”

“Iggy. Right. Thanks, man.” Ian smiles at Iggy again, getting a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach the other man’s eyes in return. Ian decides that’s his cue to take his leave, since he really doesn’t have any reason to still be standing around in an alley now that he knows Mickey isn’t around. Iggy doesn’t look like he’s got anything more to say, so Ian gives him a curt nod and turns to make his way back out onto the street. He’s a little disappointed he didn’t get to see Mickey, or talk to him, or actually get his hands on him this time, but there’s still hope, judging by what Iggy had said. Mickey thinks he’s fuckable, at the very least, which Ian’s choosing to find encouraging.

Jesus, he’s got no idea why a guy he talked to for maybe ten minutes at the most – at least five of which he spent thinking he was going to have a heart attack – has had such an impact on him. It’s like Mickey’s wormed his way into his mind and it’s a little alarming that Ian finds himself not minding terribly much. He literally met Mickey while he was buying cocaine from him, that right there should probably tell him a thing or two about Mickey, namely that he’s not the kind of guy Ian should be hanging around with. Which is precisely what Ian wants to be doing. Well, hanging out and maybe a little bit of hand stuff, possibly even dick stuff. Yeah, he definitely wants to be doing dick stuff with Mickey. And, if the way Mickey looked more than ready for the hummer Ian had offered the first time and Iggy’s encouragement are any indication, there’s a good chance Mickey wants to do dick stuff with him, too.

The thought’s enough to bring a grin to Ian’s face and he finds himself whistling happily as he ducks into the Kash and Grab. It’s fucking sweltering outside and there’s an old fan that’s definitely seen better days rattling as it blows air in the face of the woman wearing a hijab sitting behind the counter. She scowls at him and Ian actually feels a little bit chastened, like she just busted him trying to lift from the store or something. It’s fucking weird. He kind of pities anyone who does try to steal from the Kash and Grab while she’s manning the register, something tells him that they’d end up regretting it very quickly. Someone bumps into him, hard, and Ian’s barely got time to notice oddly pale blue eyes and dirty blonde hair before he’s being shoved away with a, “watch it.”

“Dick,” Ian mutters as the door swings shut behind the other boy, the bell tinkling. Good mood dented a bit but not ruined, he grabs himself a bottle of water from the fridges and a bag of Grain Waves for Lucy, since she loves the things but never remembers to put them on the grocery list. He also snags a Bic from the box on the counter, since Jacob keeps fucking ‘borrowing’ his lighters and never returning them, and offers a smile to the woman, who merely scowls harder at him, like she’s not buying whatever it is he’s selling.

“$4.87.”

Ian digs a crumpled five out of his back pocket and she blinks like she doesn’t understand the words that have just come out of his mouth when he tells her not to worry about the change. She shoves the coins into his hand anyway and barks at him to get out of her store if he’s not going to buy anything else. He can’t resist a shit-eating grin and a, “have a nice day!” It’s worth it to see the dumbfounded look on her face. There’s a bounce in Ian’s step as he makes his way back to where he parked the car, a few streets away so as not to leave it as out in the open as last time. He looks it over, just to check and see if anyone’s decided to key it or slash the tyres or something, but it looks fine. Ian thinks about calling Conner to help him smoke his newly acquired joints, but then he remembers that Conner stayed at Seth’s place last night and he doesn’t want to have to deal with that asshole, especially since he hasn’t got his coke like he said he would. He’ll have to pay Tommy a visit, use up the rest of his cash buying some. Fuck it, maybe he’ll smoke up with Jacob. What Lucy would think of that ‘brotherly bonding’ makes him chuckle.

Sarge greets him at the door, like always, and he sniffs at the pocket Ian’s got his little plastic bag of joints stuffed in. Shit, he could be making money pimping Sarge out to Border Patrol with how good he is at busting Ian and Jacob with drugs on their person. Ian moves into the kitchen and tosses the Grain Waves onto the counter, where Lucy will find them. Sarge is whining and nudging at his pocket with his nose as Ian heads back into the hall. “Aw, buddy, don’t rat me out again. I promise I won’t lock you out of my room tonight.”

“I still can’t believe you talk to him like he can actually understand anything you’re saying to him.” Ian glances up to find Jacob leaning over the bannister and watching him and Sarge with clear incredulity. “He’s the best dog ever but he’s still just a _dog_ , dude. He’s not that smart.”

“Smarter than you, asshole—“

“Ian!” comes Lucy’s sharp rebuke from the direction of the living room and Ian rolls his eyes, sending a glower Jacob’s way when he snickers. It’s honestly fucking humiliating that they even still have a swear jar but Lucy’s pretty adamant about her sons growing up with at least a decent amount of class and refinement, so she enforces the ‘no cursing’ rule pretty vigorously.

“Sorry, Mom!” he calls back, “I’ll put a dollar in the jar later!” He hears Lucy give an affirmative and heads up the stairs, Sarge at his heels.

“You’ve lost so much money to Mom just by not being able to control your mouth around her,” Jacob comments casually, accepting Ian’s reprimand in the form of an elbow to the ribs with dignity. He trots along behind him as Ian makes his way into his room, looking shocked when Ian allows him entry for once. “Wow, you’re actually letting me in your room. You’re taking this whole ‘bonding’ shit seriously, aren’t you?”

“We owe Mom.” Is all the answer Ian has to give. Jacob’s face scrunches like he’s going to cry, and he purses his lips, unable to meet Ian’s eyes. A shithead he may be, but Jacob hates disappointing Lucy just as much as Ian does, and using that against him is a sure-fire to shut the younger boy up real quick. Ian holds out one of his joints as a peace offering and Jacob’s lips twitch into a smile as he takes it.

“Damn, quality time _and_ weed? You must really be feeling that momma’s boy guilt, huh?”

“Yeah, like you aren’t,” Ian grunts, swinging one leg out of his window so he can straddle the frame. Lucy will flay both of them alive if she finds out they’re smoking, so he’s not gonna risk stinking up his room. It takes way too long to air out and he can’t rely on Jacob not to throw him under the bus if it comes to that. They might grudgingly love each, but there’s still very much an ‘every man for himself’ mentality between them most of the time. “Come on, shithead. We’re goin’ up to the roof.”

“Aw, dude, means I gotta climb...” Jacob’s grumbling trails off and Ian smirks as he steps out onto the flat part of the roof outside his window, using a foot on the frame to reach up and grab the gutter of the next storey. With a grunt of exertion, he hauls himself up and over, twisting into a sitting position as he does. It takes a little manoeuvring but he manages to drag Jacob up next to him, his brother collapsing onto his back with a huff. “I hate that part,” he mumbles, joint already clenched between his teeth.

Ian just rolls his eyes and reaches over to light up, Jacob’s eyes slipping closed as he inhales deeply. He makes sure to breathe the smoke right in Ian’s face. “Charming.”

“Second-hand high.”

“Gimme the fuckin’ joint.”

Ian snatches it out of Jacob’s hand and takes a hit, savouring the slight burn and the scratchy feeling at the back of his throat. It’s been too damn long since he did this. He sits there, trading the joint back and forth with Jacob until it’s finished, then lights up another. They finish that one too, and Jacob ends up with his head pillowed on Ian’s lap, picking at a loose thread on the older boy’s jeans. “You know something, Ian?” he says thickly, after two hours of the two of them sitting in companionable silence.

“What?” Ian drawls, tilting his head back to watch the clouds roll by.

“You’re a good brother. You’re a douchebag, but you’re a good brother.” Jacob tries to sit up, but he’s got noodle arms and can’t push himself into a sitting position. “I mean it, man,” he adds when Ian’s only response to shoot him an incredulous look. “You beat up those bullies for me in eighth grade, and you always help me with my English homework, even without Mom telling you to. You practice soccer drills with me, even though I don’t do that for your lacrosse stuff. And-and you don’t hate me for making you feel like shit all those years when we were younger,” he finishes, voice hushed and almost afraid, like he’s worried he’s wrong and Ian’s going to tell him that he really does hate him.

He doesn’t hate Jacob, he never has. Even at their worst, when they were fighting every day and flinging harsh words that were meant to worm their way beneath the skin and _hurt._ Jacob’s his brother, has been since Ian was a year old, and he’s never been able to deny that, much as he might want to sometimes. Matt Skinner and his gang of cronies had learnt that the hard way when Ian had broken noses and fingers, had gone on the warpath, because he’d found out those assholes had smashed up the science project Jacob had worked so hard on. Jacob’s English teacher and his soccer coach had both been pleasantly surprised when Jacob’s grades and his skills on the field had improved dramatically. Ian had done all of that because Jacob had needed his help and, despite any complaining he might have done, Ian was always going to give it to him.

“Nah, Jake,” he says softly, using a nickname he hasn’t for years, to show Jacob just how serious he’s being right now, “I don’t hate you...though you _are_ a total pain in my ass—“

“You ruined it!” Jacob laughs, whole body shaking with it and his eyes scrunching closed, “We were totally having a moment and you ruined it!” It takes him a while to calm down, and he’d set Ian off, so Ian's letting out the occasional wheezy chuckle too, but Jacob blinks up at him with soft, guileless brown eyes. “I’m gonna do better,” he whispers, “I’m gonna be a good brother, too.”

“Okay,” Ian replies simply; he believes Jacob, can see how genuine he is about this written all over his face. He tips his head back again. It’s starting to get dark, which means they’ve been up here for too long. Lucy’s gonna come looking for them and she’ll lose her shit if she finds out they’re on the roof. She gets worried about them falling and breaking bones or whatever. “...The gym was a fucking disaster.”

“Oh, it was so bad!” Jacob groans, “ _So_ bad! We need to find something else to do together.”

“We could do this?” Ian suggests with a shrug. “I haven’t felt the urge to throw you off the roof.” That sounds pretty bad, but Jacob knows the significance. Jacob grins up at Ian and it’s the first time in a while Ian’s seen that expression without even a hint of mockery.

“Can you even imagine the look on Mom’s face if she found out we were bonding over smoking weed?”

Ian bursts into laughter, which is infectious enough to have Jacob in stitches as well, because they can both _vividly_ imagine the look on their mother’s face. They’re still laughing as they clamber down and duck back through Ian’s window just in time for Lucy to knock on the door, the timing almost sending them back into another fit of hysterics. Jacob holds a finger to his lips.

“Ian? Time for dinner, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, we’ll be right down, Mom!” he calls back, pressing his face into his shoulder so he doesn’t start laughing again.

“Oh. Is Jacob in there with you?” Lucy asks, and he can hear the tentative hope in her voice. Jacob jabs his side lightly and he glances down at his brother to find him grinning. Ian smiles back at him. Looks like their new truce is going to come in handy already, and coincide nicely with the one they’d made when they were younger about making Lucy happy.

“Yeah. We were hanging out.”

“Oh. Well. Good. We’re having lemon chicken for dinner.”

Jacob whoops and bounces off Ian’s bed, where he’d collapsed after they’d climbed back through the window, and he slings an arm around Ian’s shoulders. He leans in close, like he’s about to share the secrets of the fucking universe, and Ian arches a brow.

“...Your room totally reeks of spunk.”

“Oh, fuck _off.”_

 


	4. What A Way To Make A Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People keep finding new ways to get on Mickey's nerves.

“Yo, Mandy! Get your ass up, bitch! I ain’t bringing you breakfast in bed!”

He’s probably being an asshole, considering Mandy didn’t get in from her shift until about two this morning, but he just made breakfast for her and Iggy, so they can both shut the fuck up and be grateful. Only reason he’s even up this early in the first place is because he’s got a shift at the garage that he can’t be late for or Rudy will rip him a new asshole, and because he doesn’t want to be anywhere near this fucking house when Terry and the rest of the Milkovich brood get home. He’s not gonna get a moment of peace until they go on another run, so he’s already savoured having time to read the paper and enjoy a cup of coffee while he cooked the eggs. Mandy’ll have to go back to making the food, since cooking is for women, pussies and homos, according to dear old Dad, so it might be awhile before Mickey does it again. He glances over when Iggy’s door creaks open and his brother emerges from hibernation, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and pulling a pair of sweats over his bare ass with the other.

“I hear somethin’ ‘bout food?” he mumbles, jaw cracking as he yawns loudly. Mickey rolls his eyes and gestures to the big bowl of scrambled eggs sitting on the kitchen table, coffee sloshing in his mug as he does. Iggy grunts, practically collapsing into a chair and dragging the bowl towards him. “There coffee, too?”

“Just made a fresh pot. Make sure you get some before the skank gets her fuckin’ talons on it.”

“Well, fuck you very much too, assface,” Mandy snarls as she storms into the kitchen, looking ready to kill a man. Mickey, wisely, gets the fuck out of her way and passes Iggy the ketchup when his brother makes grabby hands at it, like he’s a fucking toddler and not a grown-ass man. Iggy has to smack the bottom of the bottle to actually squeeze any of the stuff out, and it splatters over his eggs with a sad squishing sound. “Gimme that.” Mandy snatches it back from him, Iggy crying out in protest, and shoves the bottle under the faucet. Ah yes, the tried and true method.

“Enjoy your soggy eggs, Iggs,” Mickey mutters, sipping at his coffee, and Iggy flips him off with a scowl. “Both your ungrateful asses are welcome, by the way. Didn’t have to make you fucks breakfast ‘fore I gotta go to work, y’know.”

“Yeah, you’re a real saint, asshole,” Mandy drawls, dropping heavily into her own seat. Mickey notices that she hasn’t got any fucking _pants_ on and grimaces. He really wishes she wouldn’t walk around in just her underwear because he doesn’t need to see that, Iggy doesn’t need to see that, nobody needs to fucking see that. He knows better than to say anything about it though, since Mandy’s liable to rip his goddamn head off if he so much as broaches the subject with her before she’s had any coffee.

“Thanks, Mick,” Iggy says around a mouthful of food and Mickey’s face screws up in disgust. God, his siblings are revolting, each in their own unique ways. He’s got a bunch of special fucking snowflakes on his hands here.

“Uh-huh. Close your fuckin’ mouth while you chew, maybe.”

“Filthy animal,” Mandy adds, nose wrinkled as she stabs viciously at her eggs. Mickey’s just glad she hasn’t focused her attentions on him, because his sister’s a real she-demon in the mornings. Not that she isn’t always a she-demon... “Try taking a shower, too.”

“Why’re you two always ganging up on me?” Iggy whines, prompting both Mickey and Mandy to roll their eyes at him, “Seriously. You two could be fucking twins. It’s like The Shining in this house.”

“Stop being a dumbass and we won’t have any reason to gang up on you,” Mickey points out dryly, leaving Iggy and Mandy to bicker in the kitchen while he goes to finish getting ready for work. There’s no point doing anything with his hair, because he’s going to end up running greasy hands through it eventually today, and he’s undoubtedly going to need another shower by the time he’s done. He’s just hoping there’s gonna be hot water left by the time he gets home, because he doesn’t particularly enjoy going to bed with a layer of grime coating his skin. Well. Anymore. His hygiene habits have improved greatly since his early teenage years. Mickey’s got some time to kill before he’s got to leave for work, so he’s ready to kick back and read another chapter of the copy of To Kill A Mockingbird he swiped off Mandy, who’s supposed to be reading it over the summer for her English class but hasn’t touched it since she brought it home over a month and a half ago. Iggy barges into his room without knocking, the way all of Mickey’s brothers always fucking do.

“Nerd,” he scoffs, slamming the bathroom door behind him. The pipes squeal and rattle in protest, which means the jackass is actually following Mandy’s snide suggestion and showering, and Mickey’s not gonna get any peace and quiet while he’s doing it. He might as well leave for work early.

Mandy’s not anywhere to be seen when he emerges from his bedroom, which means she’s in her room, so it should be relatively safe to move around the house without fear of being screamed at. She’s probably in an even worse mood than she usually is in the morning because Terry’s coming home, which means she’s gonna have to lay low with Aunt Rande for a few days. She’d gotten into it with their father real bad before Terry had left and he’d busted up her face something awful. Mickey had earned himself a nasty concussion for daring to step in. He’s not keen to repeat the experience – for the millionth time – anytime soon.

“Goin’ to work!” he hollers and Mandy sticks her head out of her door, scowling. He thinks he’s gonna get chewed out for something, even braces himself for it, before her face softens into something a little more neutral and she forces a strained smile that makes his chest ache.

“Have a good fucking day, asswipe. Thanks for breakfast.”

 “You’re welcome, douchebag.”

Mickey’s ready to walk out the door when Iggy saunters out of his room, wearing the same sweats as before, but it’s what his brother’s got on his head that brings Mickey up short. “Ey!” he cries indignantly, letting his bag slip off his shoulder and hit the floor. “That’s my fucking Sox cap, motherfucker!” Iggy’s not fast enough to avoid Mickey crashing into him with all the force of a raging bull, sending both of them to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs.

“You two are morons,” Mandy comments casually as she watches them roll around, grappling with each other as they fight for possession of the snapback. Mickey manages to yank it out of Iggy’s hands with a shout, shoving his brother’s face into the carpet as he does. “And Mickey’s gonna miss the L,” their sister adds, before she slams her door.

He’s doesn’t miss the L, but it’s a near thing. Rudy gives him the stink eye as he races in the door with only minutes to spare and Mickey pants out an apology to the old man, doubling over and trying to catch his breath, sucking in huge gulps of air. His “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, boss” gets waved away with a dismissive gesture and a scoff, Rudy shaking his grizzled head.

“You weren’t late, Milkovich. But if you really feel bad about it, you can make it up to me by wearing that damn hat the way it’s meant to be worn while you’re in my garage.”

Mickey grins, reaching up to turn his cap around the right way. He’d only worn it as a ‘fuck you’ to Iggy but he thinks he might start making a habit of it. He used to wear the thing every damn day when he was younger; it had been a birthday present from Colin four years ago, and back then Mickey had thought he was going to wear it until it fell apart. But his dad had gotten drunk one night and beat the shit out of him for wearing such a ‘faggot-ass hat’, and Mickey hasn’t touched the thing since. He figures it’s been long enough that Terry’s forgotten about the whole incident, and he knows not to let the old man see him in it now.

Rudy grunts, satisfied. “That’s better. Now, get to work before I decide to fire your sorry ass.” An empty threat if ever Mickey’s heard one. He’s turned up stoned out of his fucking mind and lo and behold, he’s still employed. Being a few minutes late isn’t gonna get his ass fired, but it will get him a verbal reaming. Rudy’s got a lovely way with words. He’s even taught _Mickey_ curse words he didn’t know existed.

Mickey had started working for Rudy after his last stint in juvie. He’d had his nine month sentence halved because he was such an upstanding juvenile delinquent, and God bless overcrowding, and his parole skank had threatened to get him a job at the meatpacking plant if he didn’t find one himself. Now, Mickey hadn’t been particularly fond of the idea of losing any of his limbs, nor did the thought of tarring rooves all summer in the sweltering heat sound appealing. So, after Kev had turned down his request to tend bar and instead called in a favour from one of Stan’s old buddies who was known for hiring guys with records, Mickey had found himself in the employ of this grumpy old bastard. He’d liked Rudy immediately, mostly because Rudy straight refuses to take anyone’s shit, including Mickey’s, and he’s got one of the most insane work ethics of anyone Mickey’s ever met, despite being well into his seventies. He lets Mickey take time off whenever he needs to and never says a word when Mickey comes into work with a split lip or a black eye or a fractured wrist, even though he knows all about Terry. Rudy’ll just hand Mickey an icepack and look the other way if he takes a little longer on his break that day.

Rudy shuffles off to his office and Mickey waits until he hears the door slam before he turns his cap back around. Raoul’s already elbow-deep in the Boss 429 Mustang the two of them have been working on together, Trent’s holed up in the back with the Impala he’s been agonising over for months and Sean’s on desk duty today, which is a sure sign that the blonde’s fucked something up and found himself on Rudy’s shitlist for it. They usually let the front desk go unmanned, the customers instead wandering into the workshop, but if one of them screws up they find themselves meeting and greeting. It’s boring as shit out there by yourself, especially when you’d rather be working on whatever project you got going at the moment, and Mickey’s pretty sure he’d rather throw himself in front of the L than be stuck on desk duty again. Sean’s the one who manages to find some way of provoking Rudy into banishing him to the Desk of Doom the most and it usually involves fire in some capacity. Seems like Sean hasn’t learned his lesson since he got busted for attempted arson.  

Mickey decides to take pity on the squirrely little shit today. “What’d you do this time, Flannery?” he calls to Sean, who looks so relieved by the break in boredom, he might be on the verge of tears. He launches into a sob story about how Rudy’s being totally unfair and exaggerating – “I didn’t nearly blow up the garage, man, this is such a crock!” – and Mickey barks out a laugh.

“Sure you didn’t,” he snickers, “That’s why your ass is parked on that chair right now. ‘Cus you _didn’t_ nearly blow this place sky fuckin’ high. Bet I know exactly how you didn’t nearly do it, too.” He turns and yells across the room, “Ey, yo, Malloy!”

“What!” The redhead yells back, voice muffled by the fact that he’s got his head stuck underneath a car. He rolls himself out and sits up, wiping at a smear of grease on his cheek in a move Mickey stopped finding endearing a long time ago. “What?” Trent repeats, sounding irritated. Mickey really fucking regrets ever letting Trent throw it in him, purely because of how pissy and fucking annoying the redhead turned out to be, but it had been a good lay and Trent’s not so bad once you get a few beers in him.

“Did Sean here ‘accidentally’ drop another match?”

Trent smirks, rolling his eyes, and lays back down. “Course he did. Sean never learns his _lesson._ Thought Rudy was gonna start whipping him with his fucking belt this time.”

Mickey cackles. “You little pyro.”

“Fuckers!” Sean snaps, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. Sometimes, Mickey can’t actually believe that the blonde is older than him, considering he acts like a twelve-year-old girl when he’s not trying to burn a Wholefoods down. “Liked it better when you were ignoring me.”

They all go back to doing just that, falling into familiar routine with practiced ease, until Rudy sticks his head out of his office and hollers that it’s time for lunch. Raoul’s got something that smells fucking delicious in a Tupperware container and Mickey doesn’t even have to ask to know that his wife, Maria, made it for him. The folded-up picture that one of the man’s half dozen kids drew gets taped up next to the other ones. There’s not gonna be any room left on the damn wall soon. Trent and Sean had both disappeared as soon as Rudy had given the all-clear and Mickey gives his boss a wave before he ducks out for a smoke. He hasn’t been outside five minutes and who should saunter up to him but...

“Lip Gallagher,” Mickey drawls, smoke spilling lazily out of his mouth and blue eyes narrowing, “The _fuck_ do you want?”

“Nice to see you too, Mick,” Lip quips dryly, reaching out to snatch Mickey’s cigarette from his hand. Any other day, he’d knock Gallagher right the fuck out for having the balls to try that little move, but he’s in a good mood. Maybe he’ll just bloody the other man up a bit after he finds out just what it is he wants. Lip hands the cigarette back after taking a long drag and he blows the smoke out the corner of his mouth before turning his attention back to Mickey. “Just wanted to drop off Mandy’s essays.”

Shit, that’s right. Mandy had paid Gallagher to do all her summer homework crap. “How come you ain’t giving these to Mandy yourself?” he demands as Lip hands over the USB that’s got all the finished essays on it.

Lip shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Would’ve, but your, uh, your dad and your brothers were there. Don’t know if you’re aware, but they don’t like me much.”

“ _I_ don’t like you much.”

“Yeah, but your dad and your brothers _really_ don’t like me. As in, one of them tried to _kill_ me the last time I set foot in your house.”

“Fuck were you doing setting foot in my house?”

“I was there to see Mandy.” Gallagher starts to backpedal like a pro when he sees Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up, his chest puffing out, and Lip holds up placating hands. “Whoa, okay, no. I was actually there to talk to Mandy about _school._ She said she wanted to drop out and I told her there was no way.”

He’s damn right there’s no way, Mandy’s too smart for that shit. She’s not gonna give up on school, like Mickey did, and Terry’s not gonna force her to drop out, like he did with Iggy and Colin. She’s gonna keep her GPA up and she’s going to graduate, even if Mickey has to drag her to the school, kicking and screaming, by her fucking hair every morning.

“But you know Mandy, she didn’t wanna hear that.” _Sounds about right._ “Told me to fuck myself, get the fuck out. One of your brothers basically threw me out on my ass.” Gallagher frowns at the memory and Mickey rolls his eyes, holding the smoke out of his reach as Lip goes to grab it again. Like hell is he doing this sharing and caring bullshit, fuck swapping spit with Lip Gallagher. Mickey grimaces as he sucks on the filter, trying not to think about the fact that Lip’s had the smoke in his mouth. Jesus Christ.

“Serves you right. Shouldn’t be telling my little sister how to live her life.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it, right? Since you don’t seem to be—” Gallagher’s nose makes a satisfying cracking sound as Mickey’s fist collides with it, blood exploding hot and thick over Mickey’s knuckles. “Fuck!” he practically howls, reeling back and clutching at it. “What the _fuck_ , Mickey!” he snarls and Mickey grins, sharp and dangerous and without a hint of good humour.

“Might wanna shut your fuckin’ mouth and fuck off out of my sight, ‘fore I break some fingers to go along with that big nose.”

Lip glowers at him, pale blue eyes bright with naked hatred. Mickey can honestly say the sentiment is returned tenfold and he grits his teeth against the tirade that wants to explode out of him. He’s fiercely protective of Mandy, will go to fucking _war_ for his baby sister, and no one’s allowed to talk shit about her, not even their brothers; Mickey’s started shit with _Terry_ in defence of Mandy, suffered through her vicious scolding as she patches him up afterwards with tender touches that stand in stark contrast to her harsh words. _Mickey’s_ the one that made sure Mandy was fed and clothed when their mom was too fucked up to even notice they were in the same room, when Terry was ass-deep in drugs and booze. _Mickey’s_ the one Mandy crawled into bed with and couldn’t sleep without until she was eight. _Mickey’s_ the one who let her snot all over him when she’d come crying to him about some boy or another breaking her heart. Telling Mickey that he’s not taking care of Mandy? Yeah, Gallagher’s _lucky_ he’s only walking away from this with a busted nose—that he’s _walking_ away from this at all _._ Gallagher throws him one last, pitiful glare before he slinks off back the way he came.

Fuck him. It’s Gallagher’s fault that he’s in such a shit mood for the rest of his shift, so much so that Rudy tells him to fuck off early after Mickey threatens to crack Sean’s head against the wall. He snaps at a hobo who has the nerve to bump into him on the L ride home, nearly biting the poor guy’s head off and leaving him shaking like a leaf. Or that could just be withdrawal, judging from the sweat pouring off the bastard, Mickey thinks bitterly as he takes a closer look. Fuckin’ junkie. He tries to shake the foul mood off by the time he reaches the house, but remembering that Terry’s waiting inside and Mandy’s not only makes him more miserable and pissed off. Why can’t the court system do its fucking job for once and keep his old man locked up for life? God knows Terry’s done enough evil shit in his fifty odd years to warrant lifetime imprisonment. Mickey’s pretty sure he could name at least four of the bodies decomposing in the Chicago River thanks to his pops.

Mickey decides he needs another smoke before he can stomach heading inside, so he plants his ass on the steps and lights up. He’s about halfway through the thing when the front door creaks open, and he almost ends up jarring his neck as he twists around to see who it is. His heart starts hammering against his ribcage and his breath gets lodged in his throat before he notices it’s just Colin. He breathes out a sigh through his nose, tipping his head back, and turns back around. Colin hadn’t gone on the run with Terry, Jamie and Tony, hasn’t actually been around since he got out of the clink a few weeks ago, which in itself is unusual since Milkoviches can always be relied on to return home after a period of incarceration – they’re like fucking homing pigeons. Mickey might admit to having missed having Colin around, if pressed. Colin sits down beside him and fixes him with one of those fuckin’ stares that Mickey hates, which he most certainly did not miss. His brother’s sharp blue eyes peer out from underneath the messy curls that flop over his forehead, and Colin tilts his head to the side after a few moments of a silence that’s quickly approaching _awkward_.

“...Missed ya,” Colin drawls at least, leaning back onto his elbows, and Mickey lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It takes a moment for his brother’s words to actually sink in and he can scarcely believe it when they do. Colin _missed_ him? None of his brother’s ever _miss_ him, ‘cept for maybe Iggy, and even then, the shithead only admits it after he’s smoked a couple joints or finished off a six-pack and a half.

“Yeah? Well, fuck, man. You goin’ soft or what?” Mickey mutters, gruff in a way that should clearly be signalling he’s got no idea how he should be acting right about now, because this is unfamiliar territory for their family. They don’t say shit like that to each other, because that’s not how they’ve ever been. Milkovich men don’t _do_ emotion, not with each other. They save all that shit for Mandy, used to save it for Ma, God rest her fucking junkie soul. Colin’s hard punch to his shoulder and the scowl he shoots Mickey sets the younger man’s nerves at ease a little, because that’s normal, that’s manageable.

“Well, fuck me for giving a shit about my little brother.”

Mickey grunts, taking a long drag on his cigarette and blowing the smoke out slowly before he replies. “Not so little anymore, asshole.”

Colin grins, all sharp-edges and what would normally be cruel intent softened by genuine affection. “You’re still Mini Mickey. Ain’t exactly growin’, are ya, Mick?” He sniggers, catching Mickey’s fist when he takes a swing at his head, uses the shorter man’s momentum to drag Mickey into a headlock. He thrashes and spits venomous words and even resorts to digging his nails in but it’s no good. Fuck, Mickey’s always hated getting into it with Colin. He’s the hardest one of his brothers to beat in an honest fight – and by honest, Mickey means dirty as fuck, because street rules apply in the Milkovich house at all times, even when your opponent happens to be your baby sister. _Especially_ when your baby sister is ready to claw your fucking eyes out with her harpy talons. But where Mandy telegraphs all her moves before she makes them, and Iggy’s a step behind because he’s quick but not quick enough, and his two eldest brothers are big but glacial in their movements, Colin’s fucking deadly. He can sit a grown man on his ass with one fast, brutally efficient move.

“Fuckin’ asshole,” Mickey spits as Colin releases him, the sonofabitch actually having the stones to snatch the smoke out of his hand and take a drag. What the fuck makes everyone think they can do that, he has no idea. “Finish it,” Mickey mutters, giving a curt shake of his head when Colin holds it out for him to take back, “Goin’ inside.” He climbs to his feet, knees popping in a way that makes him feel like an old geezer, even though he’s nineteen fucking years old. Mickey hesitates before he heads in, glancing over his shoulder at Colin one last time and rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip. “...Dad in there?” he asks tentatively and Colin scowls, though it doesn’t seem like his sudden irritation is directed at Mickey.

“Passed out on the couch soon as he got home, right after he beat the shit out of Ig for somethin’. Surprised he didn’t crash the fucking car, amount of whiskey on his breath. Thought I was gonna get drunk from smellin’ it across the room.”

Yeah, sounds about right. Wait—

“Fuck’s he beating on Iggy for?” Mickey demands and Colin shrugs, probably appearing apathetic to anyone who wouldn’t know better. But Mickey can see the tightness in his shoulders, the way his lips curl into a silent snarl.

“Dunno. Ask Iggy.”

Terry’s sprawled out on the couch in nothing but his boxers, the sight almost making Mickey gag because holy fuck, no one deserves having to see that shit. Mickey wouldn’t wish having that image burned into your brain on his worst fucking enemy. Mandy’s door is closed but he knows she’s not in there. She probably cleared out to Aunt Rande’s not long after he left for work. Clever girl. Mickey’s going to miss having her at his back while she’s gone but he wants her out of Terry’s reach more. Iggy’s door is shut too, but he can hear thumping from his brother’s room, rhythmic, like Iggy’s banging his head against the wall or something. He raps his knuckles against the hard wood three times, quick, and the door swings inwards almost immediately.

“Aw, fuck, Iggy,” Mickey mumbles.

Terry worked Iggy over real good this time. He’s got a busted lip, a black eye with a nasty looking cut above it and there’s a familiar Terry’s-fist-shaped bruise blooming on his cheek like some kinda morbid flower. Iggy’s shoulders slump when he sees Mickey, and he can’t meet his little brother’s eyes. He’s got a fuckin’ claw hammer clutched in one hand, like he’d been expecting trouble when he opened the door, which is a pretty good assumption to make, living in this fucking house.

“Why—“

“He was looking for you,” Iggy croaks, shrugging with a move that looks like it causes him some serious pain, if the way he cringes is any indication. “Wouldn’t tell him where you were. Threw me up against the wall, punched me in the face a couple times.” Iggy finally lifts his gaze, looking the way Mickey feels right now, miserable and sick with guilt. “We’ve had worse, little bro.”

It might be true – Mickey’s cracked ribs, broken arms, numerous concussions can all attest to that – but that doesn’t make it hurt any less that this is _his_ fault. Terry did this to Iggy because his brother wouldn’t give _him_ up. Sometimes, it surprises Mickey just how strong his brothers’ sense of fraternal loyalty actually is, compared to the paternal loyalty born from fear and fostered by beatings.

“Dumbass,” Mickey grumbles, slipping around Iggy and into his brother’s room. It’s kind of like navigating a minefield, Mickey being forced to jump over piles of clothes and kicking aside empty bottles and cans. He throws himself down onto a clear space on the bed, wriggling backwards until his head hits the pillow. Iggy lowers himself down carefully beside him. Neither of them speak for a long while.

“...Saw your Northside friend today,” Iggy mumbles into the quiet and Mickey genuinely loathes himself for the way his heart lurches in his chest at the mention of Ian. He turns his head, finds Iggy studying the cracks in the ceiling like they’re holding the answers to all of life’s questions just out of reach. There’s a ghost of his usual smile on Iggy’s face and Mickey’s eyebrows jump.

“Oh yeah?” he prompts, desperately hoping he doesn’t sound like the eager schoolgirl with her first crush as much as he thinks he does. It’s obviously just as bad as he thought, because Iggy’s eyes crinkle with amusement.

“Yup. Bought some weed off me for some ridiculous price.” There’s more, Mickey can hear that Iggy’s not saying something else, and he can see the way his brother’s chewing on the inside of his lip, the way he does when he’s trying to hold in laughter. “Gave him a discount, though.”

“What fuckin’ discount?” Mickey demands, jerking into a sitting position. All the horrifying, humiliating possibilities run through his mind as he waits for Iggy to spit it out, and he swears he can feel cold sweat sliding down the back of his neck to pool in the small of his back. Which, gross.

“...The ‘my little brother wants to bone you’ discount,” Iggy whispers, automatically twisting away from the kidney punch Mickey surges sideways to deliver, which leaves him sprawled half on top of his older brother. He can feel Iggy’s body shaking with hacking laughter and Mickey grits his teeth, forcing himself to be quiet, lest they rouse Terry from his drunken stupor.

“You mother _fucker!_ ”

“He totally wants to bone you, too!” Iggy tries to defend himself, grabbing onto Mickey’s forearms and holding tightly while he uses his legs to kick out at the other. Mickey jams a knee into his stomach, earning himself a pained grunt. _Good,_ he thinks viciously, before he remembers that Iggy’s already pretty battered. He wrenches one hand free, long enough to give Iggy a titty twister the same he would Mandy, and flops down beside him again.

“I don’t fuckin’ care!”

A bald-faced lie. He cares, a lot.

“Yeah, you do!” Iggy crows, slapping him on the arm lightly and seeing right through him, and Mickey huffs. They fall back into companionable silence, trading the smoke Mickey lights back and forth between them until it’s finished. Mickey thinks Iggy’s fallen asleep when, “Ian and Mickey, sittin’ in a tree—“

“I’ll _fucking_ kill you.”


	5. To Start Things Off With A Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey meet again.

Ian’s always prided himself on his self-control.

It’s been impeccable since he was little. While Jacob was sneaking cookies off the tray where they were cooling, Ian was waiting patiently at the breakfast bar, glass of milk at the ready. Lucy was always so impressed with Ian’s restraint, and disappointed in Jacob’s lack thereof, that she’d give him an extra one after dinner, which Ian would then proceed to rub in Jacob’s face when their mother wasn’t looking. He’d waited patiently with nary a protest while he was passed over again and again for the captain position on the lacrosse team, as he witnessed nepotism at its finest. And when Coach Barrett’s son had finally, _finally,_ graduated and Ian was given the position in his junior year, the payoff had been all the sweeter. He sticks to his strict diets and exercise regimes religiously, leaving himself with an enviable physique – and a big head, according to Jacob, but fuck him, Ian’s allowed to be proud of the body he works hard for. Point is, Ian’s self-control is something he’s spent years cultivating to an acceptable level. Gotta be disciplined if you want to be an officer, right?

Mickey is proving to be the single greatest test to Ian’s willpower that there’s ever been.

He’s found himself thinking non-stop about the other boy, practically day and night. It’s starting to become a little obsessive, actually, but there’s just something _about_ Mickey that makes it nearly impossible for Ian to take his mind off of him for long. He’s never been this hung up on a guy, not once, and it’s crazy because he and Mickey haven’t even had a proper conversation. Their one interaction was a _drug deal,_ for God’s sake. But Ian _wants_ to have a conversation – many, if possible, about everything, anything – and he wants so much more from the other besides. In particular, he wants his hands on Mickey, anywhere he can get them, because that’s what he’s been dreaming about for a week and a half now. It’d be more embarrassing how often he finds himself needing to do a load of laundry before he leaves for his runs in the morning if Jacob didn’t slink downstairs to do the same.

Ian’s managed to wait another week before deciding to seek Mickey out again, which really is a testament to how strong his restraint actually is. He doesn’t even have any extra money on him this time, too impatient to bother with the pretence of being there to buy anything from Mickey. Iggy’s encouragement has bolstered his courage, so Ian’s decided to throw caution to the wind – well, figuratively at least, he’s not about to let his guard down completely in a neighbourhood like this – and just go for it. Worst that can happen is that Mickey reacts badly and they end up fighting rather than fucking, which would be disappointing, but it’s one of the many, many scenarios that have played themselves out in his head. Ian’s ready for that possibility and _more_ than ready for more favourable outcomes. Preferably ones that end with hands down pants.

There’s a bounce in his step as he ducks into the alley today and Ian could fucking _sing_ when he spots just the boy he wants to see waiting for him. Well, he’s not arrogant enough to think Mickey’s waiting for _him_ but—yeah, he’s rambling in his own head now, that’s probably a bad sign. Mickey hasn’t seen him, hasn’t given any indication that he knows he’s not alone, and Ian feels his thousand-megawatt grin falter a little but not slip away entirely; he’s not going to be deterred, not now that he’s got his chance. “Hey, Mick!” The nickname slips out before he can help it and Ian wants nothing more than to snatch the words back as Mickey’s head snaps around, body jolting like someone’s stuck him with a cattle prod. It takes Ian about a _second_ to notice that the whole left side of Mickey’s face is covered with mottled yellow bruises, that wrap around his throat and disappear beneath the loose t-shirt he’s wearing. “Wha—“

“Not a fuckin’ word,” Mickey snaps, voice hoarse, and Ian knows for sure that’s someone’s had their hands around his throat sometime in the last week. His heart gives a painful throb at the thought and Ian fights off the bizarre urge to reach out and pull Mickey into his arms. “Not one fucking word.” Mickey doesn’t wanna talk? That’s fine by him. Ian squares his shoulders and closes the distance between them in a few long strides, Mickey’s eyes widening as he skitters back a step. “Wha—“

It’s Ian’s turn to interrupt as he reaches out to curl his fingers gently around Mickey’s jaw, on the uninjured side, and tilt the shorter boy’s head up. Mickey doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even appear to be breathing, he just stares up at Ian with huge blue eyes as he waits for the redhead to make the next move. Ian’s heart is beating the wild tattoo of a war drum against his ribcage, his breath coming in quick, sharp huffs from his nose, and there’s a roaring of blood in his ears as he rubs his thumb slowly along Mickey’s jawline. An electric thrill shoots up his spine at the simple touch. Holy shit, he’s doing this, this is happening right now. Mickey’s not freaking out and shoving him away, spitting venomous words of denial or condemnation at him. Mickey’s actually going to let Ian kiss him.

...Or not.

As Ian leans down to press his lips against Mickey’s, Mickey turns his head to the side just enough that Ian hits the corner of his mouth instead. A cold shock of disappointment has Ian’s stomach clenching, but the feeling fades quickly when Mickey lets out a grunt and reaches out to grab Ian by the waistband of his jeans, yanking him closer until their hips bump together.

“Kiss me and I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out,” he murmurs, warning clear in a voice that’s dropped to something low and husky, that has Ian’s mouth parting around a silent groan. He presses his forehead against Mickey’s, other hand coming to rest on his waist, and Mickey lets the taller boy crowd into his space until his back hits the bricks behind him. Ian savours the tiny gasp Mickey lets out when he nudges his legs apart and slots a thigh between his. “Fuckin’—can’t—stop, _stop,”_ Mickey groans when Ian applies a gentle pressure, the harsh jerk of his hips at odds with his words. The way he grabs a handful of Ian’s t-shirt and pulls him down until their chests are rubbing together further contradicts his demand that Ian stop, and he’s rocking back against Ian, eyes screwed closed. “Can’t fuckin’...do it here,” Mickey pants, sounding beautifully breathless. “Someone’ll...see!” He gasps out the last word, breath hitching as Ian presses a little harder, rolls his hips a little more firmly.

Ian’s doing a great job of ignoring Mickey’s protests, too focused on the fire that licks up his spine at a slow, syrupy pace. There’s warmth unfurling in his gut, heat roiling through his body in crashing waves that almost leave him shaking and panting, threatening to drag him under. _This is happening, this is real, this isn’t just another dream_ – the mantra plays itself over and over in Ian’s head. The rough drag of denim and the nearly painful friction is driving him insane, his grip on Mickey’s waist tightening reflexively, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Mickey’s going to slip out of his grasp again. Mickey reaches up to grab the back of Ian’s neck, digging blunt nails in and dragging his head down until they’re breathing each other’s air, lips barely brushing. It sure seems like Mickey wants Ian to kiss him, but he won’t take the chance just yet. Better to work Mickey up a little more, until it’s more likely that he’ll be too far gone to rip Ian’s tongue out of his mouth. Ian’s on the verge of just pressing Mickey bodily into the wall and fucking rutting against him when hands find their way to his chest and shove him back.

“Said...we can’t do it here,” Mickey very nearly growls, Ian feeling a sharp pang of arousal at the sound. He wants to groan again as Mickey adjusts himself, slouching back against the wall so he can tug his jeans back up where they’re supposed to be sitting. “Je- _sus,_ ” Mickey huffs, eyes darting around the alley. He holds a hand out to stop Ian’s approach as he tries to shuffle a little closer. “Gimme a minute to catch my fuckin’ breath, a’right, firecrotch?” he demands, grumbling something that sounds like, “need a fuckin’ smoke,” under his breath.

Ian waits semi-patiently, trying to bring his own breathing under control and consoling himself with the knowledge that Mickey isn’t saying _no,_ he’s just saying _not here,_ which implies that they’re going to be moving this someplace else. There’s still doubt slithering its way, cold and unwelcome, through his happily fogged thoughts, hissing in his ear, but he banishes it quickly. Mickey’s already let Ian put his hands on him, let him touch, and Ian’s certain Mickey’s gonna let him do a whole lot more. It occurs to him, abruptly, that he hadn’t corrected Mickey on his use of ‘firecrotch’. Usually, any derogatory nickname pertaining to his hair colour has him bristling and snapping at the person responsible mulishly, but coming out of Mickey’s mouth...it hadn’t sounded so bad. Ian might have even liked it, a little bit, liked the way it rolled off Mickey’s tongue, might have even wanted to hear it again.

Mickey’s darting glances at him, clearly thinking he’s being subtle, and Ian feels his lips curl into a smirk. He’s still painfully hard, because he’s been waiting two weeks for this, but the fact that Mickey so obviously is as well more than makes up for it, makes him think that maybe Mickey’s been waiting for him too. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip at the thought of how badly he wants his mouth on Mickey, and Mickey groans aloud at the sight. “Fuck, man, quit that shit.”

“We gonna do this?’ Ian shoots back, drawing himself up to his full height and relishing the way Mickey’s eyes darken with the movement. “’Cus, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to fuck.” Usually, there’d be more finesse to Ian’s method, but he’s not trying to seduce Mickey right now, not when he’s already got him hooked. No, this is about his patience being stretched beyond thin, fraying and dangerously ready to snap. Throwing Mickey up against the wall and going to town is quickly becoming the most likely scenario.

“Fuckin’ A we’re gonna do this, asshole,” Mickey spits, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip again as he lets his eyes wander very deliberately up and down Ian’s body. “Just not _here._ ” He pushes himself off the wall, Ian tracking the movement with a predatory intensity. “C’mon,” Mickey grunts, jerking his head as he motions for Ian to follow him. Ian’s glad Mickey’s got his back to him because he almost trips over his feet in his hurry to obey the gruff order. Mickey shoots Ian a glance over his shoulder, scowling when Ian offers him a winning smile. It’s the kind of beaming that has old women holding hands to their hearts as they coo over him, has girls flushing and falling over themselves, has boys on their backs and moaning like they’re in a bad porno. That Mickey seems immune to it would be insulting if it wasn’t so attractive; Ian can’t fucking stand sycophants, so Mickey’s defiance is a welcome respite from simpering and concessions that come too thick, too quickly.

Mickey leads them through a twisting maze of backstreets, Ian having to jog to keep up with the shorter man’s quick strides at some points, and he’s just about ready to scream in frustration when Mickey finally ducks into a doorway covered in police tape. Ian follows him up a set of rickety stairs that sway alarmingly under their weight and the redhead’s almost afraid they’re going to crumble right out from underneath him at one point. Up and up and up they go, Mickey stopping on the second to last floor. The apartment building they’re in must have held tenants once, but there’s clearly no one living here now, except for maybe the occasional squatter. Graffiti covers the walls and there are broken bottles and junk food wrappers scattered all over, among other, less tasteful things. It smells of dank and piss and Ian’s Northside sensibilities want to retreat, but his libido is in firm control of his basic motor functions at the moment.

“Place used to be a crackhouse,” Mickey explains absently as he fiddles with the lock on one of the apartment doors, 412, and Ian shifts his weight from foot to foot, “Pretty infamous. Cops came and cleared it out a month or so ago. Figured you’d get a kick out of a taste of what the Southside’s really like.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Damn right.”

Mickey gets the door open and they step into the apartment, Mickey kicking the door closed behind them. Ian slams him back against it without warning, plastering their fronts together until there’s practically no space between their bodies at all. Mickey’s breath leaves him in strangled gasps and he bunches a handful of Ian’s t-shirt in his fist as Ian starts a slow, purposeful grind, resting his forehead against Mickey’s shoulder – he’s careful to avoid the bruising. His own breath is coming out in loud huffs, like the sounds are being punched out of him, and he breathes in the faint scent of cigarettes and whiskey deeply. Mickey’s got his other hand buried in Ian’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp with a gentleness that everything about Mickey belies, from the warning inked across his knuckles to his entire standoffish demeanour. It makes something in his stomach flutter pleasantly before the fire returns, all-consuming and demanding to be stoked. Mickey unclenches his fist, just resting his hand on Ian’s chest for a moment, before he uses it to, gently but firmly, push Ian back. Ian’s not ashamed to admit that he _whines_ at the loss.

“Shirt off,” Mickey demands and Ian hastens to comply, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously once he’s yanked it over his head. Mickey sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and Ian wants to kiss him more than ever, aches with it. He wants to know what Mickey’s lips feel like pressed against his own; they’re obviously chapped and Mickey’s tongue darts out to wet them as Ian stares unabashedly. He forces himself to keep his posture loose, relaxed, but he’s too wired to be able to hold it for long, one of them has to make a move. To his surprise, it’s Mickey.

It’s Mickey who reaches out and lays a hand on his chest again, who lets it slide slowly down until he reaches Ian’s naval, where he hesitates for the briefest of moments. Ian shivers under the gentle touch, swaying forwards subconsciously. Then Mickey’s diving for Ian’s belt, scrabbling to undo it with frantic, jerky motions and hands that shake. “Fuckin’—get on me, firecrotch,” he mutters, hissing through his teeth when Ian has to bat his impatient hands away and yank the belt out of the loops on his jeans himself. Mickey’s already shoving his own jeans and boxers down, turning to brace his forearms on the door and resting his forehead on them, and Ian groans at the sight.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the back of Mickey’s neck in the closest thing he’s going to get to a kiss. He noses at the sweat-dampened, downy hairs at Mickey’s nape, keenly feeling the shivers he elicits from Mickey as he plasters himself along his back, hands falling to rest on his hips. Mickey’s practically burning under his hands and he grinds against him lazily, Mickey rocking back against him with soft pants. “You got any—“

“I’m clean if you are,” Mickey grumbles, voice muffled as he hides his face in his arms, but Ian can see the flush creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears, “And I, uh...I already...” Ian catches onto what Mickey’s struggling to say quickly and his voice cracks on a moan, grip on Mickey’s waist tightening. There are definitely going to be bruises in the shapes of his fingers there later and knowing that sends a thrill of primal satisfaction rippling through him.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, thoughts of Mickey writhing on his own fingers dancing through his mind and causing the fire in his gut to erupt into a white-hot burn that shoots through his veins, “Alright, alright. Okay, let me just—“

“Hurry the fuck up and get on me!” Mickey snaps, turning his head to glare at him, and Ian yanks his boxer briefs down. Mickey presses back against him insistently and Ian has to loop an arm around his waist to keep him as close as he possibly can, and to stop him from squirming. He uses one hand to line himself up and pushes in slowly—

_Oh._

“Fuck,” Mickey grits out, his eyes screwed shut, as Ian inches himself inside at a painfully slow pace. He wants nothing more than to just slam all the way in but he knows he has to give Mickey time to adjust. It’s easier going than if they’d tried to do this raw, thanks to Mickey’s careful preparation which, holy fuck, those mental images are going right into his fucking spank bank. Mickey’s mouth is slack and his head’s hanging, but he keeps himself relaxed as Ian eases his way in, his quiet grunt being the only sign of any discomfort.

Ian stops once he bottoms out, rests his forehead between Mickey’s shoulder blades, and struggles to bring his breathing back under control. Mickey feels so fucking good, wrapped around him, and Ian doesn’t think he’s gonna last too long, which might have been embarrassing if he hadn’t been waiting for this for as long as he has. He bites his lip, teeth digging in until he’s worried he’ll draw blood. “Fuck, Mickey,” he mumbles, shuddering at the way Mickey tightens around him at the sound of his name, “Fuck.”

 “Yeah, if you don’t mind!” Mickey snarls, reaching back with one hand to grab Ian’s hip and squeeze, digging his nails in harshly, “I’d like to get to the actual fucking some time toda— _shit!”_

Mickey’s jolted against the door as Ian pulls back then snaps his hips forward in a brutal thrust, finally starting to fuck the other boy like he’s wanted to for two fucking weeks now. The fast, rough pace he starts up punches ragged gasps out of Mickey, who’s got a white-knuckled grip on his hip now and who’s pushing back against him eagerly. Ian’s grunting quietly, still biting down on his lip so he doesn’t start blurting out the praises that are gathering on the tip of his tongue, because he doubts Mickey would appreciate them. Mickey grabs onto Ian’s wrist, holding on like Ian’s the lifeline that’s keeping him from being swept out to sea, and lets his head drop back, eyes still screwed shut. “Fuckin’...c’mon, harder,” he demands, breathless, and Ian has to huff out a laugh at his audacity. He pulls out, ignoring Mickey’s whine, and lightly kicks Mickey’s legs further apart.

“Been waiting for this,” Ian murmurs, pressing his lips to Mickey’s skin, sweat-slick and warm under his touch. The words come unbidden, completely beyond his control now, and he takes the briefest of moments to marvel over the fact that Mickey’s managed to completely destroy eighteen years of carefully crafted self-control. Ian drags his tongue over Mickey’s pulse point, fingers creeping underneath his loose t-shirt to splay across his ribs. Mickey stutters out a moan, squeezing Ian’s wrist, and Ian worries gently at his skin with his teeth. “Fucking wanted this, wanted _you.”_

“You’re a fuckin’ freak,” Mickey laughs, breathless, “We’ve met _twice,_ man.”

“Your point?” Ian drawls, brow arching. He doesn’t give Mickey time to reply, just lines himself up again and gets back to work. Anything Mickey might have wanted to say is swallowed by the loud gasp he lets out, the curse he spits.

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” he groans, once Ian’s rhythm has evened out again. Ian takes a moment to pause and realign himself, which has Mickey snarling out threats the likes of which Ian’s never heard, and he plasters himself to Mickey’s back before plunging back in. Mickey fucking _keens_ when Ian’s patience pays off and he manages to hit the spot. “Right fuckin’ there... _right_ there...” Mickey’s panting now and he peels his fingers away from where they’re curled around Ian’s wrist, reaching down to take himself in hand. Ian groans again, mouthing at Mickey’s neck as he desperately fights the urge to press his lips against Mickey’s, bitten raw and bright red. He’s close and he really hopes Mickey is too, because it’ll be mortifying if he’s the only one to finish early.

Ian’s half expecting Mickey to protest when he lets his hand slither down his stomach, to wrap his fingers over Mickey’s own inked ones as he works himself, but Mickey only presses back against him more firmly. Ian’s breathing is ragged, complimenting Mickey’s shallow gasps perfectly, and Ian can still barely believe that this is finally happening. He’s only been fucking dreaming about this for two weeks, and it’s even better than he’d built it up to be in his head. The Mickey in his dreams doesn’t compare to the Mickey he’s touching now. The Mickey who’s clutching at him painfully tight and gritting out a moan from between clenched teeth as he spills over their entwined hands. The way Mickey tightens around him as he finishes sends Ian over the edge after a few more erratic thrusts, and he pulls out before he can finish inside the other boy, spending in his own hand with a hiss of Mickey’s name instead. Mickey lets out a weak moan of protest at the sudden empty feeling, slumping back against Ian.

“You’re a fuckin’ machine, Jesus,” he laughs and Ian chuckles, not pausing in his work of nosing lazily at the sweat-dampened hair curling over Mickey’s ear. He bites back his objection when Mickey pulls away and yanks his pants back up, the grimace on his face undoubtedly due to the uncomfortable, sticky feeling Ian knows well from his days of hasty fumbles in dark Boystown alleys. He pulls his own jeans up, grabbing his belt from where he’d thrown it across the floor, but doesn’t bother with his shirt. Mickey’s watching him warily now, like Ian’s a predator and he’s feeling like cornered prey. So, Ian slumps against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. He fumbles for the smokes he keeps in the pocket of his jeans and his lighter. Mickey sits beside him as he lights up.

Ian takes a toke, holds out the cigarette in offering, and Mickey hesitates for a second before he grabs it, takes a drag of his own. He seems to relax after that, shoulders gradually uncurling from their tense hunch and head tipping back. The smoke drifts lazily around them as they trade the cigarette back and forth in silence. Ian’s the first one to speak.

“My last name’s Gallagher,” he says, casual, light, not looking at the other boy as he waits for a reaction.

“Milkovich.”

“That Russian?”

“Fuck off. Ukrainian.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Gallagher’s Irish, right?”

“Right.”

“Fuckin’ mick.”  

Ian laughs, ducking his head and peeking at Mickey from beneath his lashes, only to find the other boy watching him. Only this time, Mickey’s looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, his lips parted as though in shock. Ian bites at the corner of his mouth, fighting down his smile. He’s gonna take this opportunity – Mickey not running away, or treating him with hostility, or dismissing him as nothing more than a one-time thing that he’s never gonna see again – to get to know Mickey, as much as the other’s going to let him.

“Van Damme or Seagal?” he tries and Mickey’s nose wrinkles.

“Fucking _Seagal.”_

“Oh, fuck no. Van Damme could kick Seagal’s ass!”

“You are out of your _mind._ There’s no fucking way!”

They bicker good-naturedly over the Van Damme vs. Seagal debate for a while, Mickey punching him lightly on the shoulder at one point and effectively ending the faux-argument. He’s moved a little closer without Ian noticing and they’re sitting pressed shoulder to thigh, feet knocking together, when Mickey speaks up again.

“Gallagher, huh? You, uh, one of Frank’s?”

Ian blinks, surprised that Mickey knows his deadbeat uncle. Ian hasn’t even thought about Frank in years, not since the man last stumbled to Clayton’s front door and demanded that his brother give him money that he felt he was entitled to. He’d had Monica in tow, Ian remembers her collapsing on the floor and refusing to move after trying and nearly succeeding in seducing his father, Clayton ushering him back upstairs. He remembers very clearly hearing his father yell in a way he’d never heard before, and Frank’s drunken ranting is something he’s never forgotten to this day. The man had stunk of piss and reeked of whiskey, his hair unwashed and hanging limply around his face, his clothes dirty and unkempt. Ian had used to wish, when he was little, that he lived with Monica and Frank, but one look at the raggedy couple who had coming spilling into his living room and leaving nothing but chaos in their wake, and he knew he’d had it good.

“I’m his nephew. How do you know Frank?”

Mickey laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Man, everybody on the Southside knows Frank Gallagher. That piece of shit’s legendary around here. Pretty sure he owes my old man money right now. Pretty sure he owes _everyone_ money.”

Ian snorts; that sounds about right. He stubs the cigarette out on the floorboards and lights up another, Mickey snatching it right out of his mouth this time, lips curling into a smirk around the smoke as he dares Ian to challenge him on it. Ian doesn’t, just lets his head loll back against the wall as he contemplates on his next question.

“You got any other brothers? Sisters?” he decides, seeing Mickey shrug in his peripheral.

“You met Iggy, right?” Mickey’s lip briefly curls at Ian’s nod, like he’s half-heartedly trying to get mad but can’t bring himself to do it. “Well, I got three more older brothers. Got a younger sister, too. _Shit_ load of cousins who are pretty much my brothers.” He nudges Ian lightly. “You?”

“Got a little brother. And a bunch of half-siblings I’ve never met, apparently.”

Mickey nods slowly. “Yeah. I know some of ‘em.” Ian’s eyebrows shoot up and Mickey grins, slow and lazy. “Told ya, man. Everybody knows the Gallaghers. I uh, I might have actually broke your brother’s nose last week.” He jumps to defend his honour when Ian gapes at him, incredulous. “Ey, don’t look at me like that, a’right? He used to be Mandy’s boyfriend, and the prick fucked around on her. She forgave him, or whatever, but I never fuckin’ did. He’s lucky he’s still got all his fuckin’ _limbs_ after what he did.”

Ian grimaces. His half-brother sounds like a real charmer, a real upstanding guy. Ian feels some of the excitement that had ignited in him at the prospect of Mickey being able to introduce him wane a little, but Mickey’s next words are more encouraging. Well, mostly.

“Your other brother’s a fucking freak but he knows what he’s doing. Last time I saw him, he was beating the shit out of some guys who were givin’ your sister a hard time. Think he put one of ‘em in the hospital. Serves ‘em right, fuckin’ pricks, harassing a chick like that.” Mickey takes another drag, lets Ian pluck the cigarette out of his hand without a fight. “Fiona’s pretty cool, my brother went to school with her. Don’t know much about the little dude though, ‘cept that I’m pretty sure he’s not Frank’s either.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s fuckin’ black.”

Wow. Monica must have really gotten around. He’s about to ask more questions, about his half-siblings who are larger in number than he’d anticipated, about Mickey himself since he seems to be in a forthcoming mood, when the other boy climbs to his feet, dusting himself off. Ian scrambles to stand as well and Mickey’s eyebrows arch. “You wanna do this again?” Ian blurts out in a rush, failing to hide the edge of desperation in his voice, and he’s pretty sure he’s had a cardiac arrest by the time Mickey nods hesitantly.

“Yeah, alright, Gallagher.”

“In the next week sometime?”

Ian feels his heart throb painfully when Mickey shakes his head without pause this time, obviously doing a horrible job of keeping the dejection off his face, because Mickey’s quick to explain himself. “Nah, man. Can’t this week. Got a job to do with my brothers out of town. Week after, for sure. Should be free by then.” He seems amused by the huge smile that breaks out on Ian’s face. “Gimme your phone, I’ll put my number in.”

Mickey doesn’t seem eager to hang around after that, disappears down the stairs before Ian’s even got his shirt back on. Ian’s not too concerned, not after _that,_ but he wishes they could have talked some more, relaxed and easy like they were. Although, he’s probably lucky Mickey had been as obliging as he had been; he could have easily just pulled his pants up and went on his merry way, never to think about Ian again. But he hadn’t. He’d sat beside Ian, sharing cigarettes and tiny parts of himself with the redhead. Ian feels what little of his self-control was left slip away when he realises that it hadn’t been enough. He wants to know more about Mickey, he wants to know _everything_ that the other is willing to give.

He’s totally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm really unhappy with how I ended this chapter?


	6. Blood's Thicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's had A Day.

First thing Mickey does once he leaves Ian’s company is go see Mandy.

“Yo, Aunt Rande!” he yells, pounding on his aunt’s front door again. He’s been standing out here for like, ten fuckin’ minutes and neither his skank sister or Rande herself has bothered to get off their ass and come answer him. Just fucking typical for those moody bitches, Mandy’s probably on the fuckin’ rag or something, or she’s being a shit on purpose to piss him off – in which case, she’s succeeding. “Mind lettin’ me in, or what!” He raises his fist to hammer on the door one more time and it swings inwards to reveal his very pissed off aunt.

“Fuck do you want, Mickey?” she demands, slurring a little; she’s got one hand reaching for something behind her, and Mickey would bet any money it’s her trusty shotgun, Ol’ Twelve. She used that thing to chase Terry off her property more times than Mickey could count when he was younger, and he always remembers being glad knowing that it was in the house. Helped him sleep at night. Well, that and having Mandy curled up against him and not shaking her way through nightmares all night, ruining all his good shirts with salt stains from her tears. “Terry send you?” Mickey recoils like she’s slapped him across the face, and her expression softens into one of understanding as she catches sight of his extensive bruising. “Sorry, kid,” she mutters, “Gotta check. Had one of your brothers come over earlier this week.”

“Which one and the fuck did he want?” Mickey slips inside without waiting for permission and sure enough, there’s Ol’ Twelve just within reach. Rande smacks him across the back of his head none-too gently for his insolence, Mickey hissing through his teeth in protest. He follows her into the kitchen anyway.

“Tony. Said Terry sent him to see if Mandy was here, the fuckin’ little asshole.” Mickey shakes his head as Rande nods hers sagely. She pours herself a tumbler of scotch from the open decanter on the counter, gesturing for Mickey to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Had the balls to come to _my_ front door on an errand for that motherfucker.”

Mickey’s well aware of how his aunt feels about her brother. Hell, Uncle Ronnie’s probably the only one of Terry’s siblings who actually like him, and that’s only because Terry happens to cut him in on his business the most. Nevermind the fact that Terry fuckin’ screws him on payments, gives him 10% rather than the 30% he promised him and doesn’t tell him shit about it. Mickey’s always put arrangements like that down to just being good business, and he screws over people he works with too, but with Terry it feels extra despicable, considering the fat prick’s doing it to family. Family’s fucking sacred, at least in Mickey’s eyes, and he’s never cheated his brothers out of what they were owed for the work they put in on his scams. Rande’s of a similar opinion, is who he _learned_ that opinion from. She spent many a night in his childhood imparting her ‘wisdom’ on him and Mandy.

“Probably just wanted to check on Mandy. Wouldn’t have told Terry shit.”

Rande grunts noncommittally in a way that tells him she doesn’t believe him, throwing back her scotch and fixing herself a refill. Down the hatch with alarming speed that one goes, too. He notices that her eyes are bloodshot, like she’s been crying or something. The thought makes him squirm in discomfort. “Speakin’ of your sister. She’s stayin’ at a friend’s place for the night. You can have the spare room if you need it, kid.”

Fuck. No Mandy. ‘Course there’s no fuckin’ Mandy. Never around when he wants her to be, is she? The one time he actually _wants_ her fucking input on something going on in his personal life. Mickey bites back a curse, running a hand through his hair and trying hard not to think about how he’d rather be burying his fingers in fiery orange strands instead. That’s a nice and inappropriate thought to be having while sitting at his aunt’s kitchen table. “Nah, stayin’ with Colin and his girl for a while. Thanks, though.” He watches as Rande empties the remainder of the scotch into her glass and throws it back. After a moment or two of debating with himself whether or not saying something’s gonna be worth it, Mickey decides to speak up. “Little early for that kinda drinkin’, ain’t it?”

Rande levels a sneer at him, using a rolled-up catalogue within reach to whack him across the back of the head again. He’s ready for it this time, meaning she only manages to clip him. “Mind your fuckin’ business. Nosy little shit, never knew when to keep your damn mouth shut...” She mutters to herself under her breath as she shuffles around the kitchen, and he hauls himself out of the uncomfortable plastic chair he’d dropped himself into. Mickey waits patiently for her fit of pique to run its course, arms crossed as he leans back against the wall and watches her rinse the decanter out.  

“I buy you that?”

“Hardly,” she scoffs, setting it down with more force than necessary, “Stole it for me when you were nine. For Mother’s Day. Said you were sad that your cousins weren’t gettin’ me anything. Wanted to make me feel better.” Her expression softens again, the way it used to when she thought that he and Mandy couldn’t see. They always did. “You were a sweet kid...don’t know what the fuck happened.” Rande chuckles to herself as Mickey scowls, rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip.

“You gonna tell me why you’re drinkin’ like a fish or is all my nephewly concern being fuckin’ wasted over here?” he demands, finally running out of patience, and she fixes him with a hard stare. He doesn’t back down, chin jutting out, and eventually she sighs, shoulders slumping. She looks...tired, old, like the sick woman she actually is for once, instead of the badass Southside chick she’s always been. It makes his chest ache, seeing this strong pillar of his family crumbling in front of him, without there being a single fucking thing he can think of to do about it.

“...Been five years today. Since your Uncle Leeroy.”

“Aw, shit, Aunt Rande,” he mumbles, cringing at the reminder. Leeroy had been jumped on the way home from the graveyard shift, got himself stabbed trying to fight back. He’d died in hospital a week later. Complications with his surgery or whatever. Mickey had only been fourteen at the time, and the only one who’d been there with her when it happened, but it had hardly been his first death in the family. It _had_ been the first time he’d seen Aunt Rande cry, and he’d been at just as much of a loss then. So, he does what he did then, the only thing he could think of. He wraps his arms around the woman and lets her sob into his shoulder. They stand there for what seems like an hour, Mickey rubbing Rande’s back and swaying her from side to side gently and ignoring how awkward he feels showing this much affection. Eventually, she shoves him away and demands that he get the fuck out of her kitchen if he’s not staying the night. So, not wanting to wear out his welcome further, he does.

Mickey takes the L for the second time today, staring silently out at what little of the Chicago skyline he can see, lit up against a backdrop of inky, starless blackness. He rocks with the movements of the train and lets his mind wander. His thoughts stray, as they have for the past two weeks, to Ian. Except, it’s different now, isn’t it? Now Mickey knows what Ian’s hands – big and steady and warm – feel like gripping his hips, he knows what Ian’s lips – soft and spit-slick and so fucking _warm_ – feel like pressed against his skin, damp with sweat and burning under the redhead’s touch. He knows what Ian’s body – hard but not unyielding, fucking _fantastic_ – feels like pressed flush against his own, wrapped around him like a second skin.

Oh, good, now he’s got a fucking boner on the L.

Colin’s not there when Mickey makes it back to the apartment where his brother’s shacked up with his girl, but Tanya herself is. Mickey likes Tanya, has since Colin brought her home to meet them the first time. She’s got white-blonde hair, chopped short and streaked through with a bright, shocking blue and her nails are oddly reminiscent of Mandy’s, painted black and chipped and bitten to the quick on some fingers. She’s whip-smart and doesn’t take Colin’s shit laying down, isn’t afraid to call him out on a dumbass fuckin’ move, which is exactly the kind of girl his brother needs. She’s also shorter than even Mickey, has got to be five-two at the fucking _most_ but Mickey has no doubt whatsoever that she’d launch her steel-capped boots up anyone’s ass, and send ‘em cryin’ home to mama. Still, it’s hilarious to watch his six-foot brother bend down to kiss her. Mickey keeps making jokes about how Colin’s gonna throw his back out one day.

“Sup, T,” Mickey offers, kicking off his sneakers by the door and slouching into the kitchen, where Tanya’s bustling around making what’s either a late lunch or an obscenely early dinner. She hums, twists around to kiss him on the cheek in greeting. His nose wrinkles and he jerks away from her, almost on instinct, and she chuckles. Tanya’s used to his aversion to any kind of display of affection by now.

“Hey, Mick—whoa. Shit, boy, where _you_ been?” Her face splits into a huge grin as she leans towards him and fucking _sniffs._ He pales – if that’s even possibly, he’s already Casper’s unwanted bastard child – as he realises just what it is she’s smelling. “You reek of jizz and Axe, and I _know_ you don’t wear that shit,” Tanya informs him gleefully, and Mickey curses himself for not being careful. Not just about this, but for not being fast enough to hide the skin mag he’d been jerking it to when Tanya had come crashing into his room, unannounced like she was already part of the fucking family. ‘Cus now she _knows_ and she _supports_ him and it’s fucking awful. He’d made her swear under threat of death not to tell Colin, but she’d just made some flippant comment about how Colin probably already knew that Mickey had had to ignore for his own sanity. “Was it that Northside kid Mandy was tellin’ me about? Ian, or somethin’ like that, right?”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , do his siblings really have nothing better to do with their lives than gossip about his private fucking business? Mickey makes a mental note to strangle both Iggy and Mandy the next time he sees them, and he flips Tanya off before retreating to the bathroom, her disappointed protests cut off by him slamming the door in her face. “Fuck off!” he yells when she knocks, “I’m takin’ a fuckin’ shower!”

And he needs one, he _really_ does. His boxers are sticking uncomfortably to his thighs, the dried spunk itchy as all hell. Plus, it’s about a million fucking degrees outside, so he’s soaked in sweat, which means his shirt’s plastered to his back. It’s disgusting and he grimaces as he peels the fabric off, tossing the shirt towards the hamper in the corner. His jeans and boxers, however, get kicked into a pile next to the sink. He doesn’t need Tanya touching that shit when she does laundry, that’d just be mortifying for him and it’d give her unlimited ammunition to sling shit at him for _weeks_. He can hear her singing loudly to herself, off-key and as obnoxious as usual, as he steps under the spray, joining in her rendition of the Beastie Boy’s Sabotage under his breath. The water’s fucking freezing, the way he needs it to be so that he’s not tempted to bang one out, which means he’s only in the shower for about two fucking minutes. Tanya’s moved onto some Sean Paul song he vaguely recognises when he eventually slinks out of ‘his’ room in a fresh pair of sweats and an old t-shirt of Iggy’s. Mickey flinches back when Tanya points a wooden spoon in his direction and levels him with a hard stare. Shit, she’s scarier than someone her size has any right to be.

“You’re gonna sit down and tell me all about this man of yours,” she informs him matter-of-factly, giving him no room for argument, “’Cus Iggy says he’s fine. You got a picture?”

“The fuck would I have a picture for?” Mickey grumbles, dropping onto the couch obediently when she motions for him to do so. He’s going to try his very hardest to ignore the fact that Iggy has apparently described Ian as ‘fine’, because he can’t deal with that stupid shit while he’s dealing with this stupid shit. Mickey also decides that just giving in and answering Tanya’s questions, which is about as painful as getting teeth pulled, is probably better than sullenly ignoring her, because she might actually hit him with the wooden spoon and she won’t be gentle about it. “I’ve seen the dude like, twice. And he was buying coke from me the first time.”

“But not the second time?” Tanya prompts eagerly, settling cross-legged next to him and whacking him on the arm, none-too gently, when he doesn’t surrender any other details quickly enough. “Come _on,_ jackass! Gimme details! His name’s Ian, right? What’s he look like?”

Mickey’s spared the interrogation by the apartment door bursting open and Mandy half-dragging a weakly protesting Iggy inside. Mickey can tell right away that his brother’s been tripping _balls_ at some point today, and he groans as he jumps to his feet, Tanya leaping into action immediately beside him. He helps Mandy wrangle Iggy onto the couch, his sister snarling out curses that put even Mickey and his foul mouth to shame. He wonders what Iggy did this time, since he always does crazy shit when he does fucking acid, but then finds that he doesn’t care. What he cares about is the fact that one of Iggy’s flailing hands has just hit him in the face. The side of his face already beat to hell, he might add.

“Ow! Fuck, Iggy!” he cries, rearing back more out of surprise than actual hurt, and Mandy grinds out a bitter laugh through clenched teeth.

“He’s already smacked me in the mouth _twice_ by accident. The fucking idiot started crying about hitting me the last time. I only just got him to stop before we got here.”

“Jesus Christ, Iggy,” Tanya huffs, taking his face in her hands and trying to force him to meet her eyes, “Ey! Look at me, asshole, look at me.” She’s gone full nurse mode, expression serious the way it only ever is when she’s at work or when she’s chewing somebody out for something, the two sometimes overlapping. Mandy backs off to give her room to do her stuff, Mickey following her lead. He notices that his little sister’s shaking, alarms bells starting up in his head.

“The fuck did he do this time?” he asks, quiet, and she glances at him briefly before returning her attention to where Tanya’s managing to talk Iggy down somewhat. She doesn’t shrug off the hand Mickey places on her shoulder, which means whatever it was must have been bad this time because Mandy hates showing ‘weakness’ of any kind and hates accepting comfort for it more. It was different, before their mother died, and even for a little while after. But time, and their different ways of surviving Terry’s abuse, had changed them. Mickey had become colder, less of a shoulder to cry on and more of a bodyguard, and Mandy had seemed to detach herself from any emotions that weren’t rage completely. It had taken seeing her battered and defeated, looking so much like _Ma,_ at the hands of an abusive boyfriend for Mickey to realise that he needed to close the distance that had been growing between them, be the big brother he had been again. He’d run Kenyatta off with a fuckin’ shotgun the very next day, Iggy and Colin at his back.

“...Tried to jump off a fucking bridge. Thought he could fly.”

There’s a carefully hidden tremble in Mandy’s voice when she does eventually answer him and Mickey steps closer, their shoulders bumping. Mandy wraps her arms around her middle, leaning into the arm Mickey drapes around her shoulders, eyes falling closed in a way that looks involuntary. There are dark bruises under her eyes, she probably hasn’t slept the entire week Terry’s been back. Only reason Mickey’s gotten any himself is because he knows Colin’s place is safe; Terry’s never been here, doesn’t even know that Colin lives here, let alone that he lets Mickey and Iggy crash with him. He already knows he’s not letting her leave tonight, knows he won’t be getting any sleep until Mandy does. Mandy pushes herself away from him after a few moments of silence broken only by Iggy’s occasional quiet whimper and the sounds of Tanya bustling around the kitchen now that she’s calmed his brother down. Mickey tries to tell himself he doesn’t miss the way she used to tuck herself into his side and burrow in there. Her voice is flat when she speaks up again, exhaustion evident in every word.

“He called me, comin’ down and fucking hysterical about nearly taking a nosedive. Said he tried to call you but you weren’t answering your _fucking_ phone, which I know is true because _I_ tried to call you too, motherfucker.”

That’s when he remembers that his phone is in the pocket of his jeans, which are still on the bathroom floor. _Fuck._ And before that, he’d thought he felt it vibrating in his pocket but he’d been too distracted by _Ian Ian Ian_. _Shit._ He grimaces, running a hand through his still-damp hair and sighing. “Fuckin’...sorry, Mands,” he mutters, and she softens instantly, punching him on the shoulder lightly and looking like his little sister again.

“Yeah, whatever, assface. I stopped him from goin’ headfirst into the Chicago River, he’s mostly crashed now, it’s fine. He’s fine. I handled it. Just like I always fucking do, because apparently I exist to think for you assholes.”

“Women are good like that,” Tanya quips dryly, setting a glass of water and a muffin down in front of Iggy. She fixes him with a gimlet eye that makes even Mickey and Mandy shrink back; Iggy hunches his shoulders, bottom lip wobbling. “You, mister, need to drink this,” she points to the water, “and eat this.” She gestures to the muffin. “You start seein’ purple elephants or somethin’ else funky like that, you tell me, alright?”

“Yeah,” Iggy mumbles, looking utterly abashed and much more focused than he had twenty or so minutes ago. Tanya tends to have that effect on people, Mickey’s noticed. Iggy grabs for the glass of water, fingers clumsy as he fumbles for it, and Mandy rolls her eyes. She snatches it up and shoves it into his hand, hovering to make sure he doesn’t drop it as he throws it back in one long pull. She drops onto the couch next to him, Iggy curling into her side, and Mickey rolls his eyes at how pathetic his older brother looks right now, just as pitiful as he always is after he’s crashed from an acid high. Mickey fuckin’ hates seeing Iggy on the shit; he’s the one that ends up grudgingly looking out for him during and after most times, which is a pain in the ass. Iggy’d sworn up and down that he wasn’t gonna use it again after the last time, when Colin and Mickey had had to crash tackle him before he took a running fucking leap off a building.

“He ain’t gonna be able to drag his ass home,” Mickey observes, smiling wryly when Iggy glares at him with all the intimidation factor of a wet kitten.

“You didn’t pick up the phone,” his brother throws at him accusingly, Mandy petting his hair absent-mindedly and further ruining any attempt Iggy might have made at looking menacing. “Assbutt.”

“Was busy.”

“Busy gettin’ some!” Tanya hollers from the kitchen, and Mickey feels his cheeks start to burn almost instantly. Mandy fucking cackles, like the harpy she is, and Iggy’s scowl/pout melts into a goofy lookin’ grin. He hauls himself into a proper sitting position, using Mandy’s face to push himself upright. She snaps at his fingers with her teeth but he’s apparently gained enough control over his basic motor functions to avoid getting them bitten off.

“Northside?”

Christ, he’s too tired to deal with this bullshit right now, a message he gets across to his siblings by showing them his middle finger. Mandy’s still snickering to herself, looking a lot livelier now that the opportunity to take the piss out of Mickey has arisen. Bitch. Where was she when he actually wanted to talk to her? Iggy’s looking a lot better too, which Mickey would usually be happy about but he almost wishes his brother was still too out of it to give a shit about his business.

“Eat your fuckin’ muffin, dipshit!” he snaps to avoid answering the question, kicking Iggy’s foot and dropping down onto the couch on Mandy’s other side. She rests her head on his shoulder, dark hair tickling his cheek, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders without thought.

“Fuck the muffin—“

“Eat the fucking muffin!” Tanya’s sharp reprimand comes from the kitchen and Iggy huffs, shoving half of the thing into his mouth. Mickey and Mandy both grimace. Fuckin’ gross. Iggy, Mickey’s interrogation seemingly forgotten, bounces off the couch and makes his way into the kitchen, to start harassing Tanya about her mothering tendencies. He’s surprised that Mandy actually grabs the remote and flicks through the channels until she finds acceptable background noise, _before_ she starts in on him. Her voice is quiet, deliberately light.

“So, Ian.”

“Ian,” he agrees, sighing heavily. She twists around to look at him with narrowed eyes, a smirk pulling at her lips.

“Did you two—“

“Yeah.”

“Was it good?”

“ _Yeah.”_

“Do you like him?”

The question catches him off-guard and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, Mandy waiting patiently for him to sort shit out in his head before he replies slowly, “Dunno.” He lets his head fall back against the couch, his smirk mirroring her own now. “Like his dick just fine, though.” Mandy snorts, dissolving into giggles and slapping him on the arm lightly. That seems to satisfy her, thank God, and Mandy settles in to watch whatever trashy reality TV show is on. She grumbles about it when Mickey slides out from behind her and slinks off to the bathroom to collect his phone. He’s got eight missed calls, three from Mandy and five from Iggy, and a message from an unknown number.

_hey it’s ian_

Fuck. Three fucking words and his heart starts to beat a little faster. That’s...what the fuck. That’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. Mickey bites his lip so harshly he’s sure he’s gonna draw blood, staring, transfixed, down at the simple message. He stays like that, caught up in thoughts of easy smiles and fingers brushing as a smoke is traded back and forth, thoughts of a redheaded boy who likes shitty Van Damme movies and has more half-siblings than he’d know what to do with if he was ever in a room with them all at once. Fucking _Ian._

Colin throwing the door open snaps him out of his reverie; he hadn’t even heard his brother come home. Mickey scowls when Colin just arches a brow at him, giving him a _what the fuck, man_ look that he’s had perfected since he was about six and he flips his brother off. “Fuck are you lookin’ at?”

“You, with a stupid fuckin’ look on your face. What, your boyfriend textin’ you?”

There it is. There it _fucking_ is. Colin dropped that bomb without a hint of malice, not a hint of teasing. Just an honest-to-God question. Mickey swears his heart fucking stops as he stares, slack-jawed up at Colin. Colin, whose other eyebrow inches up to join the first.

“What? You not know that I know, or somethin’?” Mickey’s shocked silence must be the only answer he needs, because he sighs and shuts the door behind him quietly. “Man, I’ve known since you were like, twelve. You had a _mad_ crush on Travis Metz, used to follow him around whenever we hung out at the house.”

_Fuck._

“Relax, little brother,” Colin mutters, taking a seat on the edge of the tub beside Mickey, their knees bumping together. Mickey runs a hand through his hair, grimacing. “I don’t give a shit. Jamie doesn’t either.”

“You fuckin’ told—“

“Didn’t tell no one. Jamie figured it out. You weren’t as good at hiding it as you thought you were. Think Tony’s the only one who doesn’t know. Don’t think he’d give a shit if he did, though.”

Yeah, Mickey’s starting to figure out he’s not very good at hiding anything. It’s the reason he’s got these fucking bruises; he’d come home after work the day after Terry got back to find the man in his room, floorboard ripped up. He and Mandy had been saving for almost a year now, stashing all the money they could spare from their paycheques, with the goal of finally getting out of the fucking Southside after Mandy graduated. Naturally, Terry’d gone apeshit and accused Mickey of stealing from him, beat the shit out of him and taken the money. That had felt worse than the beating; all his and Mandy’s work, all the countless hours they’d slaved in dead-end 9 to 5 jobs, fucking _wasted._ And it had been his fault, for not hiding the goddamn money better. The fact that Mandy didn’t blame him had only made him feel sicker with himself.

Fuck, he’s so fucking _tired._ Colin must see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his head droops until his chin is resting on his chest. He claps Mickey on the shoulder, ruffles his hair fondly, the way he used to when they were younger. “You should take a nap, man. You look fucking wrecked.”

“Feel fucking wrecked,” Mickey rasps and Colin squeezes the nape of his neck gently before he stands and leaves Mickey alone with his thoughts again. It takes him a long while to move, he’s stiff by the time he drags himself to his room, collapsing gracelessly onto the bed. Unbelievable. All of his fucking brothers fucking _know,_ and those assholes have apparently decided to just keep that to themselves all these years. Jesus Christ.

“Jesus Christ,” because it bears repeating, out loud. His voice is muffled by the fact that he’s got his face buried in his pillow. He’s actually a little surprised by the fact that none of his siblings, or Tanya, has come barging in, because that would just make his fucking day. But they’re evidently leaving him to stew on this on his own. Thoughtful fuckers. Mickey rolls onto his back with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes with a scowl. His phone buzzes in his pocket and it takes all of his energy to pull it out. A smile comes, unbidden, when he sees the message on the screen.

_you sure you can’t get out of that job with your brothers?_

_miss me already huh gallagher_

_pretty sure theres a part of you missin a part of me_

What a cocky little shit. That actually startles a laugh out of Mickey, one that he quickly muffles into his pillow. He doesn’t need his brothers catching him giggling like some fucking girl over a text from a boy. It’s not like Ian’s wrong. There’s a twinge in Mickey’s gut whenever he thinks about Ian – about the boy himself and not just the outstanding sex they had a couple hours ago. The twinge had been there when he’d sat himself on that dirty floor beside the redhead, let their sides press together in a way that was altogether too intimate for Mickey. He was usually very much a ‘fuck me and fuck off’ kinda guy. Maybe, if the guy was lucky, like Trent had been, he’d get to throw it in Mickey a couple more times before he ended the arrangement. Never before had he sat and _talked_ to a fuck, like it was more than just that. It had felt like more, with Ian. It had felt like the start of something that Mickey wasn’t going to be able to control, or stop, like Ian was a fucking freight train that was going to crash through his life whether he liked it or not.

_you seem awful sure of urself_

_that’s not a no mick_

He’s so fucked.


	7. Fuck You, Is What You Were Invited To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian learns something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some more smut of questionable quality :')

Ian’s always been, according to his teachers, a voracious learner.

He puts that to use getting to know Mickey over the next five weeks. He learns that Mickey thinks pineapple on pizza is an abomination, which is one of the most offensive things Ian has ever heard in his life. Mickey doesn’t have a favourite colour, but he’d pick black if pressed, and Ian also learns that Mickey can punch _really_ hard when he can’t resist pointing out that black isn’t actually a colour; his arm’s bruised for a week but it’s worth it to see the smile Mickey bites the corner of his mouth to hide. Mickey didn’t graduate high school, but he’d only been a semester shy when he dropped out, which he seems a little bitter about; Ian gets the feeling he didn’t drop out entirely voluntarily. Mickey’s got this tic, where he rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb, and his eyebrows are actually fascinating to watch. Ian never thought he’d be applying the adjective _fascinating_ to _eyebrows_ but Mickey’s nothing if not unorthodox. Ian’s favourite thing he’s learned is that Mickey’s bilingual; he used to be fluent in Ukrainian, but apparently hasn’t spoken it for years, which is sad because listening to him speak it is hot as fuck.

Ian’s also learned quite a few more...intimate details about Mickey Milkovich.

Mickey doesn’t kiss. Well, Mickey doesn’t kiss on the _mouth._ Because that’s apparently ‘too fucking gay’ but a dick in the ass is fine, that makes _perfect_ sense _._ Ian’s tried since that first time, and it’s resulted in painfully blue balls, which should have taught him his lesson the first time but he’s nothing if not persistent. Mickey also doesn’t fuck face-to-face, which is something else Ian’s slowly endeavouring to change. Mickey’s surprisingly vocal when he’s absolutely sure that they’re not going to be busted and Ian’s found that nothing gets him hotter than Mickey’s feverish praise, which he doesn’t even seem to be aware of most of the time. The times he’s pushed Mickey to incoherency, just half-choked sounds and once even a bitten-off cry of his name, have also been pretty fucking amazing. Even just the shared cigarettes and shit talk after or between rounds have felt like something incredible, something indefinable. Ian takes whatever Mickey’s willing to give, which has been more and more lately, more private, guarded parts of himself as the time’s gone by. Hell, they’ve even started hanging out like normal friends – and he thinks that might be what he and Mickey are now, with the obvious benefits.

His first visit to Mickey’s house had been...well, it had certainly been interesting. Mickey’s brothers, two who he hadn’t met, had been sprawled over the living room as the dark-haired boy had let Ian into the house, pulling at the hem of his shirt like Ian noticed he did whenever he was nervous about something. Mickey had barked at them to fuck off but his brothers had only jeered and demanded Mickey make the appropriate introductions – Mickey had, predictably, refused. So, Ian had taken it upon himself. Which is how he’d ended up sharing a couple six-packs of tallboys with Colin and Jamie Milkovich, while Mickey fidgeted and looked ready to combust the entire time. He’d relaxed somewhat by the time the brothers Milkovich had challenged Ian to a drunken Need For Speed showdown and by the time Iggy had come crashing into the house, while Colin was mid-speech about the importance of ‘street rules’ in the Milkovich household, even while playing video games, Mickey had been laughing along with the rest of them. He’d even let Ian lean into him, their arms and thighs pressed together.

Mickey’s been inviting him to hang out at his house a lot since then.

Lucy, being the observant mother she is, has noticed his much-improved moods over the last month, something Ian might have appreciated if his mother hadn’t immediately jumped to the conclusion that he’s been hiding a boyfriend from her. He hasn’t been, not really, because Mickey would probably beat the shit out of him if he dared to apply the word ‘boyfriends’ to what they are, but Ian wishes he _could_. He wants to date Mickey Milkovich. He doesn’t care how much of a fag it makes him sound like; he wants to take Mickey out to eat somewhere and hold his hand and fucking _cuddle._ He wants to sleep in the same bed as Mickey, not to be kicked out after they’ve had a couple beers or smoked a joint and then fucked. He wants Mickey to want all that shit, too. But, as far as he can tell, Mickey’s perfectly happy with the arrangement they’ve got going on at the moment. So, Ian’s trying to convince himself that he’s fine with it, too. He doesn’t know how to go about telling Lucy anything about Mickey, however. He’s been dodging her questions like a pro for about a week now, expertly weaselling his way out of any situations where the two of them might be alone.

Naturally, she waits until they’re sitting down for a ‘family dinner’ to confront him about it.

Clayton and Jacob are engaged in an animated discussion about Jacob’s girlfriend – amazingly, still Alicia, Ian can’t believe his brother’s actually holding down a steady relationship – when Lucy pointedly sets down her knife and fork and clears her throat. Ian tries valiantly to keep his eyes trained on his meatloaf and shovels a forkful into his mouth, chewing as slowly as he can so he can avoid speaking for as long as humanly possible. Jacob falls silent, probably eagerly awaiting Ian’s grilling, and Clayton follows suit when he notices he’s holding a completely one-sided conversation. Ian tries not to squirm under their combined attention.

Eventually, he sighs and sets his fork down as well. “Yes, Mom?” he mutters, still staring stubbornly down at his plate as he refuses to meet her eyes.

“When am I going to meet this boy?”

“Which boy?” Ian replies obediently, playing along, since that’s always the easier option. It’s always better to indulge Lucy’s attempts at ‘forming a meaningful connection’ with him, it’s usually not too painful to get in a little mother-son ‘bonding’ time. If he stabs at his meatloaf a little more viciously than is necessary, that’s his business.

“The boy you’ve been seeing, Ian. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the signs, mister.”

“It’s that Mickey guy you’ve been texting like, nonstop, right?” Jacob interjects eagerly and Ian’s head finally snaps up so he can glower at his younger brother, who’s grinning like a maniac. That little shit’s been going through his phone, _again._ His traitorous fucking phone that buzzes right then, cheerfully lighting up face-down on the table. Jacob’s grin stretches impossibly wider. “Oh my god. That’s him right now, isn’t it?”

“Mickey, hmm? I haven’t heard you talk about a Mickey before.” Lucy sounds thoughtful and Ian tries to be subtle about sliding down in his seat, shoulders hunched, but he obviously fails miserably because Clayton nearly chokes on his next sip of wine, amusement evident on his face. _Asshole,_ Ian thinks sullenly, trying to telepathically send the message to his father. “Is he a friend from school?” Lucy continues, deliberately oblivious to Ian’s discomfort.

“No, ah...he’s a friend of Seth’s.” Ian tries to console himself with the knowledge that he’s not a complete filthy liar, Ian and Mickey _did_ meet because of Seth’s stupid dare. “We’re just hanging out, though. Not dating. He’s not my boyfriend.” Ian almost has to choke the words out, and a little pang of hurt makes his chest ache briefly. Of course, even regardless of the fact that they’ve called a truce, Jacob takes the opportunity to rub salt into the wound.

“You totally wish he was,” he laughs, then cuts himself off abruptly with a loud yelp. “Ow! Fuck, Ian!”

“Jacob, watch your language. Ian, don’t kick your brother.” Lucy’s voice is firm and both boys are cowed by her scowl. Even Clayton fidgets in his seat. Ian’s still pissed off about the blatant invasion of his privacy, however.

“Maybe you should tell Jake not to touch things that don’t belong to him—“

“You left it sitting there unlocked—“

“What were you doing in my room in the first place—“

“Close your door if you don’t want me in there—“

“Boys!” Lucy’s sharp voice cuts across their argument immediately, both Jacob and Ian falling into sullen silence again as Lucy gives them the closest thing she ever gets to a glare. “One civilised dinner a month, that’s all I ask of you. Can we please _try_ and act like a family? Or is that too much trouble for everybody?”

They all mumble apologies, Clayton included, even though he hasn’t done anything, and return to their meatloaf quietly. The silence that’s fallen over the table is thick with tension, broken only by the clinking of utensils. When Ian’s phone buzzes again, the sound is inappropriately loud. All of them jump, except for Lucy, who’s incredibly composed when Ian shoots a nervous glance at her. He’s just worked up the nerve to ask if he can leave the table when she speaks up first, like she’s read his mind.

“Ian, sweetheart, you’re excused.”

 _Oh, thank god_. With a hasty thanks, Ian collects his plate and his phone, making his break for the kitchen. He manages to restrain himself from checking it until he’s loaded the dishwasher and retreated to the safety of his room, relieved when Jacob doesn’t follow him, which is an annoying habit his younger brother has developed. The texts waiting for him are, of course, both from Mickey, and he can’t help the ridiculous smile that lights up his face.

_come over?_

_u ignoring me gallagher?_

He bites his lip, thumb hovering over the screen as he agonises quickly over what to write back. He settles on something simple.

_nah, be there in half an hour_

His phone buzzes with a reply while he digs through his wardrobe for something to wear, which only makes him feel like a fucking teenage girl but fuck it, he likes to look good for Mickey, _sue him._ He drags a hand through his hair, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth again. Screw it, he doesn’t have time to change. His pale blue button-up and black skinny jeans are going to have to do, Mickey’s inevitable teasing aside. He loves giving Ian shit for the way he dresses but Ian can deal, he knows Mickey thinks he’s hot shit.

“Goin’ out!” he calls as he thunders down the stairs, Sarge lifting his head and barking, as though to ask where he’s going. He hears Lucy ask the same thing and pretends that he didn’t, practically slamming the front door behind him. Ian decides to risk taking his own car – a present from Clayton and Lucy for his eighteenth birthday – since nobody’s stupid enough to jack a car parked in front of the Milkovich house, apparently. Well, that and he hadn’t had time to grab Clayton’s car keys, and he hadn’t liked his chances of grabbing them from the kitchen before Lucy caught him and interrogated him. The drive to Mickey’s house always seems to take forever, especially when he knows Mickey’s there waiting for him, and he’s lucky that he manages not to break any road rules. He jogs up the front steps when he finally reaches the house and is about to raise his fist to knock when the door swings inwards and a dark-haired girl bumps right into his chest.

“Oh, what the fucking fuck— _shit._ ”

Ian instantly pegs her as the sister who he hasn’t met yet officially, Mandy, and not just because of her immediate, striking resemblance to Mickey himself. No, it’s more the impressive string of expletives she’s just spat out that gives her away. Her blue eyes are wide as they rove unashamedly down his body and back up to his face, her mouth slightly parted in shock. Ian offers Mandy a winning smile that makes her smirk; it’s an expression he recognises instantly, because he sees it on Mickey often enough, but the way she’s eyeing him makes his gut twist with an all-too familiar discomfort. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face.

“Hi. You must be Mandy, right?”

“Mhm. It’s Ian, isn’t it?”

Before Ian has a chance to reply, Mickey’s voice booms out behind Mandy. “Who’s at the door, bitchtits!”

“Some ginger fuck!” Mandy yells back, not taking her eyes off of Ian, and her smirk melts into a fond grin when she hears Mickey curse loudly. Ian decides then that he likes Mandy. She winks at him, punches him on the arm lightly and moves around him to flounce down the stairs, skirt that’s maybe a little too short swishing around her thighs. “See ya later, Ian!” she calls over her shoulder, giving him a lazy half-salute which he returns with a grin. Yeah, Mandy seems pretty cool.

Mickey appears at the door, looking a little flustered and a little irritated, which isn’t unusual. “Fuck you doin’ standin’ around with your dick in your hand, get inside,” he grumbles and Ian chuckles, making sure he brushes against Mickey as much as possible when he slips inside. Mickey shoves him a little, Ian shoulder-checking him in return, and then it’s on in earnest. They’re grappling and laughing, already breathless as they each struggle for the upper hand, and Ian manages to get Mickey on his back on the floor, wrists pinned down. Mickey grunts when Ian settles his weight more comfortably on his stomach, grinding down lazily and grinning when he finds Mickey already half-hard.

“So, your sister seems nice,” he comments casually, only a little out of his breath and a lot red in the face. He’s not as bad as Mickey though, who’s obviously flushed and panting softly as he arches up off the floor, chasing Ian’s hips.

“She’s not,” he mutters, scowling, “She’s a smug bitch. You gonna do anything of fucking substance, Gallagher?” he demands abruptly, rocking up against Ian with real intent this time and making Ian bite down harshly on his lip as he fights to keep a moan in. “Or are you gonna talk about my sister all fuckin’ day?”

“Bedroom?” Ian asks, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he grinds down again, harder this time. Mickey’s eyes flutter closed as he breathes heavily through his nose, head dropping back, and Ian thinks he might actually be fine with doing it right here.

“Fuck yes.”

He hauls Mickey to his feet, keeping a tight grip on his wrist as he tugs him towards the bedroom. The STAY THE FUCK OUT sign always make him smile, much to Mickey’s disgruntlement, because it reminds him of Mickey himself; attempting to be threatening but coming across as fucking _cute_ instead. Mickey kicks the door closed behind them, tugging his wrist free so he can push Ian back towards the bed when the redhead reaches for him. The backs of Ian’s knees hit the mattress and he lets himself fall backwards, Mickey clambering up to straddle him. Ian moves to prop himself onto his elbows but Mickey shakes his head, holding him down with a hand pressed flat to his chest. Ian’s brow furrows with confusion, worry slithering in icy tendrils down his spine. “Mick...?” he murmurs, sliding his hands beneath Mickey’s baggy t-shirt and rubbing up his sides slowly.

Mickey’s eyes close briefly, his knees squeezing Ian’s waist lightly, and his hand bunches in Ian’s shirt. “I just—lemme...wanna try something,” he mumbles and Ian’s breath catches in his throat when Mickey starts to rock against him, movements slow and hesitant. They haven’t done it like this, slow and gentle, all tender touches and soft sighs like the one that just slipped out of Mickey’s slack mouth. Ian splays his hands across Mickey’s ribcage, not holding too tightly or trying to guide Mickey’s movements, just letting them rest there and feeling Mickey breathe, deep and even. This is the first time he’s been able to see Mickey’s face; the way he bites at the corner of his lip, his brows drawn together, eyes shut. Ian wants them open, he wants Mickey to look at him too, to see how good he’s making Ian feel.

“Mickey,” he breathes, a desperate, urgent edge to his voice, “Mickey, look at me. Open your eyes.”

Mickey’s eyes are the bluest fucking eyes Ian’s ever seen in his life. He could fill a book with cheesy clichés about Mickey’s eyes, especially when they’re dark and wide with poorly concealed, raw _want_ like they are now. Ian’s transfixed. Mickey’s panting softly again, the roll of his hips more sure now, and Ian can’t stop himself from bucking up, hands sliding down to grasp Mickey’s waist. “Fuck,” Mickey gasps, sucking in a sharp breath and matching the more familiar pace Ian’s setting now, “Fuck, _Ian.”_

Ian gasps, surging upwards. He can’t stop himself, he doesn’t have any control over himself as he slips an arm around Mickey’s waist and drags him into his lap, the snap of his hips against Mickey’s almost brutal now. They’re still in their fucking clothes, dry-humping like the horny teenagers they are, and Ian can’t remember the last time he came in his pants but it’s looking dangerously like he’s about to now, the friction of the coarse denim driving him even crazier. Mickey said his _name,_ he said his fucking _name._ Mickey’s called him Gallagher, he’s called him Red, called him fucking firecrotch. But this is the first time he’s said Ian’s goddamn _name._ “Fuck, Mickey, wanna fuck you. Like this,” he adds quickly, when Mickey groans his agreement, “Wanna fucking look at you.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Mickey whines, drawing out the word as he presses his face into Ian’s neck, fingers burying themselves in Ian’s hair as he rocks in his lap. He’s still got a handful of Ian’s shirt. Ian shudders when he feels Mickey mouthing at his sweat-damp skin, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “Fuckin’...want you outta these clothes.” Mickey pulls back enough to strip himself of his t-shirt, flinging it to a forgotten corner of the room, never to be seen again. Ian’s reaching for the hem of his own shirt, too impatient to bother with the buttons, but Mickey’s hands still his. “Nuh-uh. Lay back,” he commands, and Ian hastens to comply. He watches, enraptured, as Mickey’s deft hands make quick work of half his buttons, brow furrowing when Mickey stops and scoots back until he’s sitting on Ian’s thighs.

“Wha—“

“Shut up,” Mickey murmurs, leaning down to press his lips to Ian’s chest, right above where he’d left the shirt unbuttoned. He pops the next button, moving his lips down as he goes, and Ian’s breath hitches when Mickey reaches his navel, nipping lightly at the skin and soothing the sting with a lave of his tongue. Ian can’t help the quiet moan that slips out of him when Mickey peeks up at him through his eyelashes and he runs a gentle hand through dark hair, Mickey humming softly at the touch.

“Mick,” he croaks, sitting up when Mickey finishes with the buttons and tugs on his shirt. He shrugs out of the damn thing, shoving it away with impatience, “Please, I gotta—I wanna— _please_.” His eyes flutter closed when Mickey runs an appreciative hand down his chest, and further down, over the obvious bulge in his jeans. “ _Fuck,”_ he whines, head tipping back as Mickey palms him firmly, rubbing hard with the heel of his hand, “Come on, Mickey, stop being a fuckin’ tease.”

“Know all about that, don’tcha, Gallagher?” Mickey chuckles, fingers curling around the back of Ian’s neck to pull him closer, their foreheads bumping and his hot breath fanning out over Ian’s mouth. Mickey sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and Ian wants so badly to kiss him. So, he does.

And Mickey _lets him._

Mickey fucking _moans_ when their lips crash together gracelessly, his head tilting to the side for better access as he pulls himself closer, back into Ian’s lap. All it takes is the touch of Ian’s tongue against his bottom lip for Mickey to open willingly for him and then they’re kissing for real. Holy shit, it’s even fucking better than Ian’s built it up to be in his head, and he’s been thinking about this for two fucking months, so this is pretty mind-blowing. The fire in his gut is raging out of control now, an all-consuming blaze that has liquid heat shooting though his veins and coiling low in his belly. Mickey’s making tiny half-sounds into his mouth, nails leaving angry red marks as he clutches at Ian’s shoulders, and he fucking _whimpers_ when Ian grabs him by the waist and drags him down into the hard roll of his hips.

“Fuck, Ian, _fuck, stop,”_ he whines, turning his head away and moaning when Ian starts to suck at the sweet spot just under his ear, “Fuck me, fuck _me,”_ he gasps, knees squeezing around Ian’s waist compulsively with every rough buck of the redhead’s hips, “Ian, you gotta fuck me.”

There’s honestly nothing Ian wants more right now. Hands made clumsy with impatience fumble with belt buckles and jeans get yanked down more harshly than intended, kicked off the bed to join Ian’s shirt and shoes on the floor. Mickey doesn’t have the patience for much prep, which suits Ian just fine because then he’s pushing into that tight heat with a heavy groan, Mickey’s hands scrabbling for purchase as he clutches desperately at his back. Ian stares down into Mickey’s open, earnest face, eyes falling half-closed as Mickey runs trembling fingers through his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. “Move, Ian,” he murmurs and Ian drops his forehead to rest against Mickey’s as he starts to do just that, Mickey’s legs locking around his waist and keeping him close, stopping him from pulling out and slamming back in the way he usually would.

In another first for them, they manage to maintain a slow, steady rhythm. Ian nudges at Mickey’s nose with his own, a thrill shooting white-hot down his spine when he realises he can press his lips to Mickey’s without fear of retribution. Mickey presses back eagerly, a firm pressure that has Ian’s heart stuttering in his chest. “Mickey,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed, “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.”

“Yeah, nice work, asshole. You know my name,” Mickey scoffs, but there’s no heat to his words, just a teasing lilt that has Ian’s eyes crinkling with his smile. Mickey huffs and Ian peeks out from beneath his lashes, finding a soft, fond smile greeting him. “C’mon, Ian,” he murmurs, and anything that was left of Ian’s self-control crumbles.

“Fuck,” he grits out, “Yeah, okay.” Ian presses another clumsy kiss to Mickey’s mouth, Mickey chasing his lips as he pulls away, before burying his face against Mickey’s neck, mouthing sloppily at his jaw as he starts to fuck Mickey the way he likes. Fast and hard and rough enough that’s he gasping for air, hand clenched in Ian’s hair and arm wrapped around Ian’s shoulders as he struggles to cling to the edge. That’s not what Ian wants though, he doesn’t want Mickey biting his lip raw to hold in the sounds he wants to make, he doesn’t want Mickey trying to _hold on._ “Let go, Mick,” he pants, “Gotta let go.”

“Fuck!” Mickey yells, clenching around him, and Ian knows he’s managed to hit the spot, “Ian, Ian, fuck!”

“Good job, Mick. You know my name.”

“Fucking _asshole,”_ Mickey whines, arm tightening its hold around his neck, “You’re a fuckin’...dick.”

The headboard is slamming back against the wall and Ian spares a thought to the fact that there’s probably going to be a dent in the wall. Then Mickey’s sinking his teeth into his shoulder to muffle a yell and coming, untouched, onto both of their chests. It’s sudden, and the unexpected clench of his body drags Ian right over the edge with him. His low moan of Mickey’s name makes the other boy shudder. Ian feels the wet press of lips against his jaw, trailing up to his cheek and stopping at the corner of his mouth. “You’re fuckin’ heavy, sasquatch,” Mickey grumbles, voice utterly wrecked, and Ian chuckles breathlessly when he realises he’s flopped, boneless, on top of the other.

With a grunt of exertion, he rolls to the side. His chest is heaving as he struggles to catch his breath and he runs a hand through his hair, Mickey laughing when it sticks up haphazardly. “Shut up, asshole,” he chuckles, grinning at the ceiling. His eyes slip closed when he feels the bed shift under Mickey’s weight as the other hauls himself into a sitting position. He figures he can lay here until Mickey returns from cleaning himself off in the bathroom, then he’ll have to start gathering his clothes and preparing to be kicked out.  

“Don’t fall asleep, jackass, you gotta clean the fuckin’ spunk off yourself if you wanna sleep in this bed tonight.”

His eyes fly open and he fixes Mickey with a look of slack-jawed incredulity. “I—you—what?’

Mickey rolls his eyes with a huff, reaching for his discarded t-shirt and using it to wipe at his chest with a grimace. “You simple or what, Gallagher? I _said—“_

“I heard you,” Ian interrupts, sitting up and snatching the shirt out of the air when it’s thrown at his face, “You just...you never let me sleep over. Sleepovers are for fags, right?”

“Not a fuckin’ sleepover, asshole. I’m just...” Mickey grimaces again, face twisting like he’s just sucked on a lemon. He’s searching for the right words and Ian’s content to give him the time to find them, because his heart is beating triple-time in his chest. Mickey wants him here, Mickey wants to sleep in the same bed as him, Mickey wants _him._ “...s’what you do, ain’t it?” Mickey mumbles, “When you’re like...boyfriends, or whatever?”

Ian’s heart fucking _stops._

“That what we are?” he breathes and Mickey’s face is practically glowing red. He bites at his lip, shoulders hunching against his embarrassment. “Mickey, is that what you want?”

“S’what you want, right?” Mickey sees him open his mouth, to object, _that’s not the question I asked,_ and cuts him off with a shake of his head. He looks like his next words physically pain him, but he means them, Ian knows he does. “I want...that. Yeah. Wanna...be with you.”

He practically fucking crash-tackles Mickey back against the bed, cutting off his protests with a searing kiss that leaves both of them gasping for air when he finally pulls back. Ian knows he must be grinning like a loon but he can’t help it. He doesn’t give a single _fuck_ because Mickey Milkovich is his boyfriend. He might not be able to tell anyone else for now, and they might have to hide, at least for now, but Mickey’s his boyfriend. Mickey wants to be with him, just like he wants to be with Mickey. Ian could fucking _sing,_ he’s so happy. He feels the Three Little Words spring to the tip of his tongue but bites them back, because Mickey might have just admitted to wanting to be his boyfriend but he’d probably still bludgeon Ian with a blunt object if he told him _that._

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey complains, letting his head drop back against the bed, “You’re not gonna get all fucking girly and shit on me, are you?”

“Maybe,” Ian laughs, pressing a smacking kiss to Mickey’s cheek, letting himself fall back against the bed when Mickey shoves him. The shorter boy burrows into his side with a grumbled “not a fucking word” but Ian just hums happily and curls an arm around his waist. Mickey’s got his head resting over Ian’s heart, cheek pressed against his chest.

“Can’t believe I’m fucking _cuddling_ with you,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and Ian noses lazily at his hair, rubbing a firm hand up and down his side and earning himself a happy rumble.

“Cuddling’s not a dirty word, Mick.” He tries to bite back his smile but can’t when he sees the way Mickey’s nose scrunches.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher, and go to fucking sleep.”

“Do I need to set an alarm, sneak out under cover of darkness?”

Mickey shakes his head minutely, jaw cracking with a yawn. “Nah. Dad’s out of town for the weekend and my brothers are all with their chicks. ‘cept for Iggy, don’t know where the fuck he is. Can stay tomorrow too, if you want.”

Ian feels warm all over, and not just because of Mickey’s weight sprawled half on top of him. He waits for Mickey’s breathing to even out before he carefully shifts onto his side, slotting a leg between Mickey’s and wrapping an arm around his back. Mickey snuffles quietly in his sleep, burrowing in against his chest contently. “Night, Mick,” he murmurs, pressing his face into the other’s hair and breathing deeply. Ian drifts off, lulled into sleep by the feel of Mickey’s slow, steady heartbeat underneath his palm.


	8. In Too Deep, Too Far Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey ruins any 'thug' cred he might have had left.

Mickey wakes to warmth.

That’s the first thing he notices when he blinks his way slowly to wakefulness, how fucking _warm_ he is. Ian’s wrapped around him like a fucking boa constrictor, radiating heat like a furnace, and blowing hot air across the back of Mickey’s neck, since he’s managed to flip over onto his other side during the night. The sensation makes him squirm a little, Ian moaning softly in his sleep and clinging tighter. Mickey can’t fight the smile the sounds brings, burying his face in his pillow to hide it, like there’s someone around who could possibly see him acting like the pathetic sap Ian Gallagher has apparently turned him into.

Five weeks of Ian sending him goofy pictures of him and his dog – who the _fuck_ names a dog Sergeant, _God_ Ian’s a fucking nerd – and texting him about stupid shit his snobby friends have said or done; five weeks of Ian snorting while he laughs far too hard at one of Mickey’s, admittedly, awful puns or blowing perfectly shaped smoke rings while they share a post-bang joint; five weeks of shotgunning beers with Ian in the dugouts of the baseball field where he got kicked off his Little League team for pissing on first base and regaling Ian with tales of his misspent youth. Five weeks of sharing parts of himself he never has with anyone – like the fact that he can’t sleep some nights without the family’s grubby tabby, Lulu, curled up on the pillow beside him, or little things he remembers about his mother that he’s never spoken about with anyone but Mandy – and it’s worn down his walls. No, Ian hasn’t worn them down, hasn’t _weakened_ his defences, Ian’s taken a fucking sledgehammer to them.

Mickey thinks he should probably be offended by how casually Ian’s managed to stroll his merry way into his life, the bastard, but...it’s been really fucking nice to have someone who isn’t Mandy or one of his brothers to hang out with, someone who he’s completely comfortable with. Not to mention the sex, holy _shit,_ Mickey doesn’t think there are words to describe how good Ian is at fucking. Mickey thinks Ian’s probably ruined other dicks for him, since he’s fairly sure he’s never gonna find another one like Ian’s. He could write fucking sonnets about that thing, if he was so inclined. Ian’s managed to propel him _way_ outside of his comfort zone – he’s fucking _spooning_ with the redhead, that’s proof enough that his boundaries have just been _shot,_ not to mention that he let Ian break his Golden Rule; he’d let Ian _kiss_ him _._ The strangest thing is, he doesn’t _mind._ Ian makes him _want_ to do stupid shit he would have written off as too faggy, like curling up on the couch together as they watch Double Impact for the millionth fucking time because it’s one of Ian’s favourites. Jesus, he almost wants to kick his own ass.

He’s probably got Mandy to thank for where he is right now, since it was her incessant meddling that pushed him to admit to maybe catching mild feelings for a certain redhead. But like hell is he ever actually going to thank her for anything, that smug skank. It had been mortifying enough that he’d had to sit in a booth at the shitty diner she works at and listen to her lecture him about the importance of honesty in a relationship – he’d blanched at the term and received a swift slap to the back of the head, for being ‘an emotionally retarded douche’. Yeah, real eloquent, his baby sister. Mandy, with Tanya’s help, had also been the one to arrange for an empty house this weekend – putting the idea of a run into Terry’s head, ensuring that their brothers would be spending some quality time with their ladies, making plans for herself – so he might owe her some smokes or something. He’ll get her a pack of Reds next time he hits up the Kash and Grab.

Ian stirs behind him, the arm that’s slung around his waist tightening its hold a little. It’d be perfect, since he’s still too sleepy to really care about how fucking _gay_ all of this is, if his full bladder wasn’t protesting. Mickey wriggles again, Ian sighing in his sleep and shifting his hips and – oh. Oh, Ian’s hard. Ian’s got a morning chubby. Mickey can feel it poking into his hip and he tries not to push back against the other boy as he attempts to carefully extract himself from Ian’s stranglehold. Talk about a Stage 5 Clinger. He huffs out a laugh when Ian whines as he manages to free himself without waking the other. The redhead clearly isn’t too devastated by the loss, because he rolls onto his stomach and starts to snuffle quietly; Mickey resists the urge to punch himself in the face when his first thought is _fuck, he’s cute._ Ian’s got his head turned towards him, the sunlight that’s spilling onto the bed through a crack in the curtains hitting his hair and setting it ablaze. Mickey feels something in him soften at the sight and he leans down to press his lips against Ian’s temple, lingering a little before drawing away with a grimace. Fucking hell, he’s turned into a real fruit.

Ian’s phone, having slipped out of the pocket of his jeans at some point last night, is buzzing madly on the floor when Mickey returns from the bathroom, so he stoops down and picks it up after he’s tugged on a pair of boxers. Lucy, which Mickey knows is Ian’s mother’s name, is calling and he bites his lip, debating on whether the call’s important enough to wake Ian over. Ian’s already got a bunch of missed calls, mostly from Lucy, one from his dad and there’s one from somebody named Jake. Jealousy flares, hot and sharp, in his chest before he remembers that that’s just Ian’s younger brother. There’s a text from Jake, as well, from an hour ago.

_yo, you alive douchebag? mom’s flipping her shit_

Yeah, no kidding. She’s only called...holy shit, twelve times. She must _really_ be losing her shit if she’s called _twelve_ times. The concept of having a parent who cares that much about his whereabouts – or who cares about him at all – is alien to Mickey; with a negligent junkie mother and an abusive prick of a father, Mickey and his siblings had had free roam during their youth, able to do whatever the fuck they wanted as long as it didn’t set Terry’s hair-trigger temper off. Their mother hadn’t given a shit about any of them by the end, not caring about anything but her next hit – not that he blames her, living with Terry, he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about using too. Mickey lets himself imagine, just a for moment, what it might have been like to have a mother like Lucy, who actually gave a fuck about where he spent the night.

Mickey sets the phone down when it stops buzzing and climbs back onto the bed. He contemplates making breakfast, but decides that would be too fucking domestic, and the allure of his new space heater’s warmth is too strong to resist anyway. He lets his fingertips trail lightly down Ian’s spine until he reaches where the covers are pulled up to his waist, and Ian sighs, blinking awake slowly. Bleary green eyes focus on him and Mickey’s breath is punched out of him by the blinding smile that spreads across Ian’s face. “Hi,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and husky from disuse, and it takes Mickey a hot second to reclaim his grasp on the English language.

“Hey,” he croaks, noticing that his hand is still resting on the small of Ian’s back, “Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Mm, you been up long?”

Mickey shrugs, finally drawing his hand away and scooting up the bed to recline against the headboard, legs tucked underneath him. His fingers twitch with the urge to light up his morning smoke, but he curls them into fists. “Five minutes.”

Ian yawns, his eyes scrunching closed and nose wrinkling, and Mickey has to bite back a smile. He isn’t quick enough, evidently, because Ian grins. Smug bastard. Mickey huffs, turning his head away, and he scowls when Ian chuckles. “Somebody’s grumpy...” he teases, voice adopting a sing-song lilt and Mickey reaches out a hand to swat at him.

“You ain’t gonna start acting like a fucking idiot now that we’re...y’know, are you?” he demands, defaulting back to gruff now that he’s at a loss for how he should be acting. Mandy’s advice had only extended to the actual confession and invitation to stay the night, she hadn’t bothered to educate him on morning after etiquette. Mickey’s never had a guy stay the night before, not even Trent, who’s probably the closest thing he’s ever had to a relationship before Ian. For fuck’s sake, he can’t even choke the word ‘boyfriends’ out. Ian doesn’t seem to mind, though, since he rolls onto his back, still grinning. “Like that, right there. Quit that shit, Gallagher.”

Ian doesn’t and Mickey can’t say he’s too sorry about it. “Can’t, too happy,” Ian chirps and Mickey pegs him as one of those obnoxious morning people immediately. Shit, he can’t muster this much enthusiasm about anything before he’s downed pretty much an entire pot of coffee. “That’s what happens when you wake up with a boyfriend.” He might not be able to say it again, might not ever be ready to say it again, but hearing Ian say it? Yeah, Mickey might be gettin’ the warm fuzzies, just a little. “’specially a boyfriend as hot as mine,” Ian continues, voice dropping to a low rumble that instantly catches Mickey’s attention. This is more familiar, he can handle this.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, stretching his legs out in front of him and watching intently as Ian heaves himself into a sitting position, his goofy grin having turned into a filthy smirk while Mickey wasn’t looking, “This boyfriend of yours a real looker?”

“Mhm. Hot as fuck.”

Ian comes easily when Mickey reaches for him, holding the headboard with one hand as he leans in to meet Mickey’s eager mouth. Mickey takes a moment to scold himself for ever forgetting that Ian was fucking _naked_ under that sheet before he lifts the hand not tangled in Ian’s hair to grab his shoulder. This kiss isn’t like any they’d shared last night, all desperation and fumbling, and Mickey isn’t sure he’s ever been kissed like this; unhurried and fucking _sweet,_ Ian taking his time to thoroughly explore every single inch of his mouth _._ Ian brings a hand up to touch his face, running his thumb over Mickey’s cheek with an almost reverent tenderness that makes him dig his nails into Ian’s skin, has his breath stuttering out of him in absolutely mortifying little gasps. Mickey’s just about ready to flip them over and get down to serious business when Ian’s phone buzzes again, popping the bubble that they’d fallen into and startling them apart.

Ian looks a little dazed when he pulls back and Mickey huffs, his head thumping against the headboard. “Probably should have told you,” he grumbles and Ian blinks at him, eyes still a little unfocused. “Your mom’s called you a million fucking times and your brother texted you?” The words weren’t meant to sound like a question but Ian had launched himself, bare-ass naked, off the bed at the mention of his mother.

“Shit,” he hisses, “She’s probably having a fucking heart attack and – fuck! My fucking meds, Jesus _Christ_...” Ian mutters to himself under his breath as he hunts for his boxers – which Mickey thinks he might be wearing but oh well – and Mickey feels his lips fall into a frown. He speaks up once Ian’s pulled on some underwear – that’s definitely his.

“What’re you takin’ meds for, man?”

Ian stills, completely frozen, and Mickey has the terrible feeling that he’s fucked up beyond belief before the redhead sighs and his shoulders slump, which isn’t exactly reassuring. Ian runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair and glances over at Mickey, guilt written all over his face. “I, uh...I haven’t told you about being bipolar, have I?”

“You mentioned it...?” Mickey might have done some research. And by ‘some’...he might’ve stayed up until an obscene hour in the morning, hunched over the decrepit laptop Iggy had stolen him for his birthday a couple years ago, pouring over article after article about the disorder. Reading about some of the shit, the mania especially, had freaked him out a little but Ian had assured him that he had it well in hand. “Said you’ve had it under control for a couple years now.” Ian’s nodding slowly so Mickey continues hesitantly. “That what you takin’ the meds for?”

“Yeah, mood stabilizers, anti-psychotics, that kinda shit. Gotta take ‘em twice a day.”

Mickey thinks on that for a couple seconds before he shrugs, reaching for his smokes. “Whatever, man. There’s food in the kitchen if you gotta eat before you take ‘em.” When Ian does nothing but stand there, looking floored, Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Fuck you lookin’ at, Gallagher?”

Ian breaks into a huge grin and plucks the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers before he can light it, swooping down to press his lips to Mickey’s, just a fleeting second of warm pressure that draws a soft sigh from the dark-haired boy. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Mickey has the feeling Ian’s thanking him for more than the free reign of his kitchen. Ian kisses him again, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth before he pulls away entirely, looking sheepish now. “I don’t, ah...I don’t actually have them with me, since I didn’t think I’d be staying the night. I should probably head home anyway, before Mom has a coronary.”

“You comin’ back?” Mickey tries not to sound as eager as he feels, but he’s not keen on Ian leaving _at all_ and it must show on his face, because Ian can’t resist ducking down for another lingering kiss, his hands coming up to rest on Mickey’s neck. They’re both breathing hard when the redhead pulls back this time.

“Of course I’m coming back.”

Mickey spends the next hour and a half Ian-less, bored and slightly anxious. He sucks down the rest of his smokes within a forty minute period and he’s too antsy to sit and kill time with TV, so he ends up making another couple rounds of the house, cleaning the best he can. He and Mandy had gone Mary Poppins on steroids on the joint before Ian had showed up, but his house is pretty much all mess so cleaning it is a monumental task that would probably take an entire small army of Milkoviches to really accomplish. The place is as tidy as it’s ever going to get. Giving up on cleaning means he’s left sitting on the couch and drinking a beer, for lack of anything better to do. He’s already showered and dressed, he’s even fucking tried calling Mandy. She hadn’t answered her phone, the bitch.

The time away from Ian, the time alone in the house, is just long enough for the doubt to creep its way in, slithering through his mind like the unwelcome intruder it is. He tells himself that Ian’s coming back, he’d said he was going to come back, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining Ian leaving him sitting here all night, waiting on him like a bitch. Another scenario plays through his mind, one he’d been doing his best to supress; he imagines Terry bursting into the house, seeing him curled up with Ian on the couch and losing his fucking shit. He can hear the fucking gunshots now. He actually jumps when the front door opens and Ian sticks his offensively orange head in. “Scared the shit out of me, man, holy fuck,” he complains, scowling when Ian chuckles and closes the door quietly behind him.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound it. “All drugged up. Mom’s pacified.” Here, Ian stops, hovering awkwardly in the middle of the living room and shuffling on his feet. Mickey almost groans aloud in exasperation when he catches sight of the way Ian’s chewing on his bottom lip and carefully avoiding meeting his eyes. “She, ah...she made me promise one thing, though.”

_Fuck._

“This one thing happen to involve me?” Mickey asks slowly, leaning forward and letting his beer bottle dangle from his fingers as he tries to slow his breathing without making it obvious he’s about to have a conniption. He knows what this is. He just needs to hear Ian say it.

“She wants to meet you,” the redhead blurts out in a rush and Mickey does groan now, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye. “And I have to invite you to her dinner party, which is next week,” Ian continues, looking miserable. “You don’t have to come, it’s not like I’m expecting you to want—“

“I’ll go.” He couldn’t fucking stand the dejected look Ian had had on his face when he’d said that he didn’t expect anything of Mickey, he doesn’t ever want to see it again. But the smile Ian’s wearing now? He’d do anything to make Ian smile like that, to keep that smile on his face. Even if that means sucking it up and doing the whole ‘meet the parents’ bullshit, or sitting through a stuffy dinner party that’s undoubtedly going to make him yearn to throw himself in front of the L. “Wanna fuckin’ see that fancy Northside place of yours anyway, Gallagher. Gimme an opportunity to case the joint.”

Ian laughs, relief rolling off him in nearly palpable waves, and he musses Mickey’s hair fondly as he moves into the kitchen to get himself a beer. He drops down onto the couch beside Mickey, throwing an arm over his shoulders and pulling him in so he can drop a kiss onto his hair. “I’ll give you the combination to Clayton’s safe, if you want. Make your job a little easier.”

Mickey scoffs, letting himself relax into Ian’s side and taking another swig of beer. “Gonna help me rob your old man, huh? Harsh.” Ian’s playing with the wispy hair at the nape of his neck, and he sighs, all thoughts of Terry forgotten. Mickey’s content to stay just like this, for the rest of the day, because he can’t remember the last time he felt this good. Well, it was probably the last time he hung out with Ian, but this feels different. Might be because he’s finally allowed himself to admit that they stopped being fuckbuddies a while ago and became something more despite his best efforts at shutting himself off emotionally, or it could be because Ian’s running a hand lightly up the inseam of his jeans. “Got a bad case of wandering hands there, Gallagher.”

Ian hums, letting his fingers trail back down Mickey’s inner thigh and making Mickey inhale sharply through his nose. Mickey can feel Ian’s smirk when he presses his lips to a spot just under his ear. “You complainin’, Milkovich?”

“Hell no, I’m not complainin’.”

Which is why he ends up in Ian’s lap, carding through soft hair with one hand and clutching at Ian’s bicep with the other. This is something else he’s never done, this kind of lazy making out. He actually feels like the teenager he is for once, which is fucking weird but that’s the effect Ian has on him. Before Ian, the last time he’d felt like the right age had been egging his English teacher’s house with Iggy. Ian pulls back, breathing hard as he rests his forehead against Mickey’s. Mickey would have protested if it weren’t for the sheepish look on the redhead’s face. He groans, and not for the reason he’d _like_ to be groaning. “Jesus, what now?”

“I start school again next week,” Ian blurts out and Mickey blinks, startled. That...wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Fuck, has it really been that long? Ian continues before Mickey gets the chance to say anything. “And I’m not gonna have as much time to spend with you. I do ROTC on Friday afternoons and I’ve got lacrosse practice on Thursday after school.” Mickey tries not to snort, because seriously? Lacrosse? Ian’s so fucking lame. “And I go to my shrink on Wednesday afternoons. Plus, I gotta keep my grades up if I want to get into WestPoint, which means I’ll need to study all the fucking time—“

“Jesus _Christ_ , do you have an off-switch?” Mickey demands, slapping a hand over Ian’s mouth to stop the flow. Holy shit can this boy talk. “You’re busy during the week? We’ll hang out on weekends. I got work most days anyway, means I can start taking more shifts while you’re at school. ‘sides, it’s only a year, right?” He’s going to ignore the fact that he just implied that he and Ian are going to still be together in a year and he hopes Ian does too. The goofy fuckin’ look on the redhead’s face when he pulls his hand away tells him that he’s not that lucky. Ian surges forwards to kiss him with an enthusiasm that nearly knocks Mickey backwards off his lap. “Alright, Jesus!” he gasps, yanking his head back as Ian wraps strong arms around his waist to keep him from toppling to the floor.

“Thank you, Mickey,” Ian murmurs, ducking his head to feather kisses down his jaw, eliciting a shiver. “Best boyfriend ever.”

“Yeah, I’ve been your boyfriend for like, twelve hours, give or take? Plenty of time for me to disappoint you yet.” There, he said it. He said the B Word. God, he hopes Ian appreciates all the effort he’s making for him.

“You’re not gonna disappoint me, Mick.”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Mickey mutters, under his breath, and Ian huffs quietly, hot breath puffing out over Mickey’s skin and making him squirm in not-quite-discomfort. “Now, you gonna let me up so I can make you lunch, or what?”

“Aw, look at you!” Ian laughs, planting a smacking kiss to Mickey’s cheek and squeezing his waist lightly before he releases him, “Cookin’ food for your man!”

Mickey scoffs, flushing a little and rubbing at the back of his neck. “’Cooking’ is a loose term. You’re gettin’ pizza rolls and beer.”

“Sounds perfect.”

When Mickey risks a glance at Ian, he’s hanging half over the back of the couch, a soft smile on his face and a tenderness Mickey’s never seen directed at him before, by _anyone,_ in his eyes. His breath catches and he has to busy himself with making lunch, before he does something fucking humiliating. “Pick a movie, but I _swear to god_ if I have to watch another fucking Fast and Furious movie, I’ll beat you to death.”

“They’re great movies—“

“They’re _shit_ movies—“

“You have taste in your ass!”

“Dunno ‘bout _taste_...” Mickey trails off, grinning, and Ian snorts before he bursts into laughter that makes Mickey feel warm inside. He loves the sound of Ian’s laugh.

“Die Hard okay?” Ian asks, once he’s managed to bring his hysterics back under control and Mickey grunts out an agreement, which makes Ian roll his eyes with a fond smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for perving on young Bruce Willis, ‘stead of Vin Diesel.”

Ian doesn’t end up perving on anyone, because they wind up christening the couch before the movie’s even halfway done, then the shower, followed by the kitchen counter. Mickey’s fucking exhausted by the time they fall into bed, far too early for any actual sleep, but he’s gonna need a nap if they’re going again. Ian wraps an arm around his waist and Mickey lets himself relax into the hold, too tired and fucked out to care about the fact that he’s letting someone spoon him twice in one day. He’s almost managed to drift off when Ian makes a quiet snuffling noise and nuzzles at his neck.

“Mickey.”

He grunts, frowning and screwing his eyes closed tighter. Ian isn’t deterred.

“Mickey,” he repeats, a little louder, a little more insistent.

“Fuck you want?”

“What’s your full name?”

The question startles him into opening his eyes, and he twists around to squint at Ian curiously. “What?”

“Mickey’s gotta be short for something, right?” Ian reasons, like he thinks he’s actually asking a reasonable fucking question while Mickey’s trying to get a nap in between rounds. “So, what’s it say on your birth certificate?”

“Mikhailo.”

“Oh. That’s a pretty cool name. Mikhailo.” Mickey grimaces at how badly Ian mangled the pronunciation, but settles back into a comfortable position. He thinks he’s finally being allowed to sleep when Ian speaks up again. “What’s your middle name?”

“My middle—what the fuck, Ian?” he demands, squirming in the redhead’s grasp until he’s facing Ian, who’s got a mock-innocent expression on his face that doesn’t fool Mickey for a second. “Why you wanna know all of a sudden? You planning on committing identity fraud or something?”

“I need your social security number for that,” Ian answers immediately, which actually impresses Mickey a little, since he hadn’t expected Ian to know that, “That’s not it, though. I just...I wanna know more about you,” he admits in a bashful whisper, cheeks reddening slightly under Mickey’s scrutiny. “I mean, you already know that mine’s Clayton and I just—“

“Aleksandr.”

Ian blinks, eyes wide, and he just stares at Mickey, who hopes his expression is just as impassive as he’s trying to make it, for a moment. Then another of his blinding smiles splits Ian’s face and he pecks Mickey on the lips before he settles back onto his pillow. Their noses bump and Mickey sighs, flinging an arm over Ian. “Now, shut the fuck up and sleep. Gonna need your energy for later.”

He needn’t have worried. Ian’s got plenty of fuck left in him, evidently. Mickey’s sad to see him go in the morning, Ian bidding him farewell with a handjob in the kitchen, a lingering kiss at the front door and a promise that he’ll see Mickey again tomorrow. He’s not alone for long, Mandy joining him on the stoop as he lights up his second smoke, having found a pack when he went rummaging through his brothers’ rooms. He’s in a good enough mood that he sits there and lets her bore him with tales of her girlfriends’ drunken antics and even grudgingly surrenders some details about his own weekend, which his sister is thrilled with.

“Holy shit, I still can’t believe you actually managed to find somebody who wants to date your grumpy ass,” she laughs around a smoke, letting it dangle daintily between her fingers and holding it out of Mickey’s reach when he grabs for it, scowling.

“Don’t be jealous just ‘cus your skank ass can’t get a date.”

“Hey!” Mandy cries, indignant, as she jabs a finger hard into his chest, “I get plenty of fucking dates, asshole!”

“Guys you fuck in the bathroom at clubs don’t count, Mands.”

Mandy’s scowling, her face thunderous, and Mickey knows he should be treading lightly if he doesn’t want his sister going postal on his ass but fuck it, he’s feeling good. His good mood doesn’t wane even when Mandy sneers and punches him hard on the shoulder. “Know all about getting fucked in bathrooms, don’t you, Mick?”

“Alleys,” he corrects absentmindedly, and Mandy snorts, dissolving into giggles.

“ _Classy,_ Mick, _real_ classy,” she snickers and Mickey grins around the smoke he’s managed to snatch out of his sister’s hand while she was busy laughing at his astounding display of wit. “Holy shit,” she breathes, looking at him with something akin to wonder, “Look at you, all smiley and shit. Who are you and what have you done with my older brother?”

“I cut him up and threw him in Lake Michigan.”

“Ah, see, there’s the Mickey I know. A sarcastic piece of shit.”

They joke around until the family’s old junker comes tearing around the corner, spluttering and backfiring with noises like gunshots. Mandy’s smile fades so quickly it’s like it was never there and Mickey sighs when she presses a swift kiss to his cheek and disappears back inside. He hears her door slam and he knows he won’t see her again until Terry bellows for her to come make them fucking dinner, or to get him a beer, like his fucking legs are broken. Terry doesn’t spare him a glance, which suits Mickey just fine, but he feels the cold clench of terror that his father’s presence always brings.

 _He’ll know. He’ll walk in there and know what I’ve been doing and he’ll fucking kill me. He’ll_ know.

But Terry doesn’t give any indication that he has a clue about what’s happened in his house over the weekend and Mickey feels himself gradually relax – well, as much as he ever does when his father’s in the house – the more obvious it becomes that he’s gotten away with it. If he can’t stop himself from choking on a laugh when Terry chalks up the new stain on the couch to spilled beer, that’s his fucking business. It earns him a cuff around the ears that leaves them ringing, but it’s worth it, knowing that his father’s drinking beer and watching shit TV on the couch Ian had him bent over less than twenty-four hours ago.


	9. The Dinner Party, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night takes an...unexpected turn...

Ian barely sees Mickey at all once he starts school, which is exactly what he’d been afraid of.

Monday, September 1st, sees him walking the halls of Northside College Preparatory High School for the first time of his senior year. He smiles at all the right teachers, visits the careers advisor and the college advisor, who both tell him what he already knows; his WestPoint application looks exemplary, his SAT scores are good, his letters of recommendation are both filed away and ready to be sent off and his personal statements are poignant and inspiring. The same shit he heard at the end of last year. All he needs to do this year is keep his GPA up, maintain his commendable behaviour in ROTC and maybe try for another undefeated season of lacrosse. He sits with his friends at the same table they’ve sat at since freshman year and listens to Seth drone on and on about some girl and Katie blabber about her new cat. It’s like sticking plastic forks in his ears and twisting them. He ends up ditching them halfway through lunch to smoke up with Tommy McNamara under the bleachers anyway, which Seth seems to take particular offense to, but fuck him. The rest of the week is equally as monotonous – his visit with Dr. Wexler on Wednesday goes exactly like every other one, he gives his obligatory captain’s pep talk to the team on Thursday and ROTC on Friday leaves him aching and tired in that deeply satisfying way it always does. Of course, he’s been _aware_ of Lucy and Clayton’s dinner party preparations for the last week but it really hits him on Saturday just how worked up his parents are.

Lucy’s hysterical.

Ian and Jacob have been trying to calm her down, unsuccessfully, all day. It hasn’t been an easy task, considering the fact that she’d woken them at an obscene hour of the morning, about an hour before Ian usually rises for his morning run and/or gym session. Jacob had looked positively suicidal. Ian can’t have looked much better himself, shuffling around the house like the living dead while Lucy barked orders. He’d almost dropped a plate at one point and Lucy’s head had practically exploded before she banished him to the backyard to do some last-minute landscaping. Nevermind the fact that he’d already mowed the lawn yesterday after school, which his various aches and pains hadn’t thanked him for, while Jacob had been made to trim the hedges and weed the flowerbeds. He’d ended up just watering the plants until a wild-eyed Jacob had appeared at the backdoor and demanded he come back inside to help wrangle their livid mother.

“She’s losing her fucking shit, dude!” he’d hissed, a frantic edge to his voice as he clutched at Ian’s shoulders too tightly; Ian had thought that maybe their mother hadn’t been the only one losing the fucking plot. Jacob’s hair had been sticking up haphazardly, like he’d been running his hands through it, and the bags under his eyes had stood out starkly against his pale skin then and Ian thinks he doesn’t look much better now as he watches Jacob warily while they both set the table to Lucy’s exact specifications. They’ve both showered and dressed themselves, also to Lucy’s exact specifications, and there’s two hours and counting until the dinner party is set to start, a half hour until Mickey’s due to arrive. Ian wants to give his boyfriend – even just thinking the word is enough to bring a smile to his face – time to adjust to his family before he throws him into the deep end of high society. Jacob’s girlfriend is supposed to be getting here at around the same time as Mickey. Ian startles as Jacob groans, doubling over and clutching at his stomach.

“Dude, you feeling okay?” he asks, gently touching his brother’s shoulder, and Jacob shakes his head, looking miserable.

“Got anxiety pains real bad _._ ”

Ian arches a brow, hand hovering in the air between them as Jacob straightens up and returns to setting the table. He can’t think of anything that would be giving Jacob his usual anxiety cramps, which generally only make an appearance before something huge. Their parents’ annual dinner party hasn’t ever caused them before, so unless Lucy’s stressing him out, Ian’s at a loss about the source of Jacob’s nervousness. “What have you got to be anxious about? You’re not the one with a boyfriend from the Southside who’s probably going to end up stabbing somebody with one of Mom’s dessert forks.” Although, Mickey making it to dessert seems like wishful thinking on his part, just slightly too optimistic. He’s tried to impress the importance of good behaviour on his boyfriend, but his expectations aren’t too high. He kind of _wants_ to see how his father’s business partners and their snotty fucking wives react to Mickey, with his knuckle tattoos and ‘fuck off’ attitude, but he also wants this night to be a success for his mother’s sake, because she might have a psychotic break if this night doesn’t go down without a hitch.

Jacob looks a little sheepish and Ian’s other brow climbs his forehead to join the other. His brother squirms under the scrutiny, shuffling on his feet, and something occurs to Ian suddenly. “Holy shit. Alicia’s from the Southside, too, isn’t she?”

“I didn’t know how to tell Mom!” Jacob cries, throwing his hands up, “And it’s not like you told her where Mickey’s from, either! You know how much this fucking party means to her, man. She’d _freak_ if she knew we were bringing home dates from ‘the ghetto’.” Ian can hear the air-quotes around the words and he grimaces at the truth of the statement. Lucy might be one of the sweetest people on the planet, but she’s like a crazy person when it comes to these fucking parties and anything that threatens them. “We both know we’re springing this shit on her ‘cus she won’t have time to tell us no.” Again, shamefully true.

“We’re bad sons,” he groans, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms, a habit he picked up from Mickey. Jacob sighs, nodding his head in morose agreement. “We’re really bad— _fuck!_ Mickey’s here!”

The doorbell had sounded like a condemnation, in light of the revelation that he’s the worst son ever, but the second time the cheerful chimes echo through the entry hall, they only serve to remind him who’s on the other side of the door and a huge grin splits his face. Mickey damn near jumps out of his skin when Ian yanks the door open, and the redhead’s breath leaves him in a rush. Holy _shit,_ his boyfriend is _hot._

“Jesus, Mick...” he breathes, letting his eyes wander and drinking in the sight of Mickey all dressed up for him. The other boy’s got a black button-up on, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his jeans are more fitted than any other pair Ian’s seen Mickey wear, which leads him to think that Mickey went out and bought a new pair of non-baggy jeans, just for his mother’s dinner party. Mickey’s hair’s all slicked back, one rogue strand of hair escaping onto his forehead, and all Ian can think about his running his hands through it, mussing it to its post-sex bedhead state. He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about throwing Mickey down on the dining room table and having his way with him, because the torture his mother would impose on him before his inevitable, slow death should be enough of a boner-killer, but Mickey makes quite a picture.

He looks panicked now though, looking down at himself and smoothing imagined wrinkles from his shirt. “Oh fuck, what? Fuck, it’s all wrong, ain’t it? Knew I shouldn’t of let Mandy dress me, _fuck_ —“

“Mickey!” Ian interrupts with a laugh, grabbing the other’s wrist and pulling him inside, shutting the door behind him. “You look hot as fuck, and it’s definitely right. Mom’s gonna be impressed.” He can’t resist reaching out to brush his knuckles gently across Mickey’s cheek, biting his lip. “Not as impressed as me, though,” he murmurs and Mickey flushes beautifully, batting his hand away. He scoffs to hide his embarrassment, or to hide how pleased he is, Ian can’t decide. It’s adorable, either way.

“Yeah, okay, Gallagher. Keep it in your pants.” Mickey shuffles on his feet and adjusts the backpack he’s got slung over one shoulder. “You got somewhere I can dump my shit ‘fore I have to meet the folks?”

“Yeah, come on, my room.” He’d been over the fucking moon when Lucy had allowed that; his last couple of boyfriends had been banished to one of the two guest rooms and Jacob was _absolutely_ forbidden from having a girl sleep in his bedroom overnight, so it had been a bit of a shock when Lucy had casually asked if Clayton needed to set up a futon in his room or if Mickey would be sharing his bed. He’d had to pick up his jaw from the floor before he could stutter out an answer. “Upstairs.” He gestures for Mickey to head up the stairs ahead of him and tells himself it’s out of courtesy and not because he wants to shamelessly ogle his boyfriend’s ass.

“Sorry, if I’m late, or whatever. Had to do an emergency grocery run and I had to work out how to stretch the budget for the month _then_ I had to sit through Mandy treating me like a fucking dress-up doll. It was a fucking ordeal, man. Bitch thinks she’s some kinda fashionista.”

Ian wonders if Mickey knows he’s babbling. Probably not. He’s not gonna tell him though, not when Mickey’s being cute as fuck, all nervous and shit. He leads the way to his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind them. Mickey hovers awkwardly in the middle of the room, taking everything in with a slightly apprehensive look. Ian’s suddenly aggressively glad that Lucy forced him to clean his bedroom; he didn’t need Mickey seeing his desk overflowing with textbooks and loose sheets of paper, or the dirty lacrosse gear that’s normally spilling out of his gym bag, or the mountain of clothes he usually let’s build up in the corner when his hamper’s full. The dark-haired boy jumps when Ian touches the small of his back gently. “Just dump it near the bed,” he tells Mickey, smirking a little. Mickey lets the bag slide off his shoulder and it hits the ground with a thump; it sends a thrill shooting up Ian’s spine, knowing that they only need to make it through this fucking dinner party, then they’ll have the rest of the night to themselves.

“So, uh, let’s get this shit—“

Ian cuts off whatever Mickey was saying by taking his face in his hands and kissing him soundly, Mickey’s hands falling to rest on his waist as he presses back eagerly. Ian lets himself revel in the fact that he’s allowed to have this now, something he can still barely believe, and Mickey sighs sweetly, curling a hand around the back of his neck, when Ian rubs a thumb across his cheek. Ian can feel the tension bleeding out of Mickey slowly, which had been his goal, so he’s feeling good about being able to help Mickey relax. All his hard work, however, is counteracted when Lucy’s voice shatters their relatively silent little world. “Ian Clayton Gallagher, you better have a good reason for not being down here helping your brother!”

“Damn, full name and everything,” Mickey chuckles, voice a little husky, putting a little distance between them. He smooths down his hair and Ian can see the tension setting back in and he can’t resist reaching out and taking Mickey’s hand, their fingers slotting together easily. Like they were made to fit. _Jesus, that was a little gay, even for me._

“Yeah, well, I think you’re a pretty good reason, right?” he murmurs and Mickey squeezes his hand a little, a tiny smile flickering across his face.

“Let’s go get this shit over with.”

Mickey let’s Ian hold his hand all the way down the stairs, right up until they see a thunderous Lucy looming in the kitchen doorway. She looks ready to chew Ian out, but then she seems to spot Mickey, who’s apparently trying to shrink behind Ian now. A brilliant smile spreads across her face and Ian’s impressed that it appears to be genuine. She’d been excited when Ian had told her that yes, he did in fact have a boyfriend, and yes, he would be bringing him home to meet her, and she looks just as excited now. Lucy claps her hands together. “Oh, you must be Mickey!”

Ian steps aside so Mickey can shuffle forward and offer his hand to Lucy, who shakes it vigorously. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gallagher,” Mickey mumbles, and Ian’s struck by how _shy_ he sounds, how polite he’s being. _Mrs. Gallagher_ , Jesus Christ _._ He stiffens when Lucy’s smile freezes on her face, her eyes fixed on the knuckle tattoos nearly clearly on display. Fuck, he’d forgotten about FUCK U-UP. Mickey seems to have noticed the change in his mother’s demeanour well. He fumbles for something, anything, to say. “Oh, uh—“

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Lucy is quick to reassure Mickey, her smile thawing, much to Ian’s relief. She pats Mickey’s hand before she releases it. “I don’t mind.” Ian feels a weight lift off his chest when Lucy touches Mickey’s shoulder gently, when Mickey doesn’t flinch away from the unfamiliar touch. “Now, I hope Ian told you that you might have to chip in a little bit before dinner, since there’s just so much to do.” When Mickey just nods mutely, seemingly unable to say anything more, Lucy continues. “Good. Now, the food’s all finished, no thanks to _somebody_ —“

“Mom,” Ian half-complains, half-whines, feeling his cheeks heat immediately. He manages to scowl at Mickey when he sees the slight smirk he’s sporting now. Lucy just waves off his protest, planting her hands on her hips. His mother’s always been most comfortable directing work flow, whether it be in an office or her own home.

“I’ll need you boys to help Clayton bring in a few more chairs from the garage. I sent him in there twenty minutes ago, God knows what he’s doing. He probably can’t find them. You know how hopeless your father is when it comes to finding things.”

Clayton cannot, in fact, find the chairs, which means that Ian and Mickey have to help him look for them. Mickey’s introduction goes a little more smoothly this time, Clayton not flinching at the sight of his tattoos. Sometimes, Ian forgets that his father grew up on the Southside, with a mother whose meth lab explosion killed two college students. Good ol’ Grammy. Mickey and Clayton actually fall into a friendly conversation about baseball, both of them being Sox fans, as they carry the chairs into the dining room. The half-smile and nod he offers Ian reassures the redhead that Mickey has Clayton’s approval, which isn’t something Ian’s used to. No, when Clayton’s met boyfriends before it was all tight smiles, forced politeness and muttered excuses for retreating to his office upstairs, nothing like the easy, relaxed exchange happening now. Jesus, he doesn’t know where this polite, well-mannered Mickey came from but he’s thinking that they may actually make it through this night without incident after all. The doorbell rings and Jacob comes tearing through the room on his way to the front door, nearly crashing into Clayton in his hurry.

“I got it! I got it!”

Mickey looks to him quizzically and Ian just shrugs, grinning to himself. “It’s his girlfriend,” he explains, gently nudging Mickey in the right direction, nodding to where Lucy wants the extra chairs set up. “We haven’t met her yet, but I think you guys might get along. You might even know each other.”

“Oh yeah?”

Mickey’s got his eyebrows arched again and Ian bites back a laugh, darting a glance at his father. Clayton takes the hint, thank god, and excuses himself to the kitchen to check on Lucy. “Yeah. Alicia’s from the Southside, too.”

“Y’know,” Mickey drawls, rolling his eyes as he places the last chair and leans against it, “Not everybody from the Southside knows each other—oh, shit! Alicia Sullivan!”

“Mickey Milkovich!”

Ian spins on his heel to see a dark-haired girl throw herself at Mickey, who actually holds his arms out for the hug. Jacob looks just as lost about the whole thing and they trade a confused glance over the heads of the pair. Mickey and Alicia chatter excitedly for a couple minutes – in which Ian ascertains that Alicia is actually the younger sister of one of Mickey’s friends, Sully – before they remember that there are introductions to make. Ian, at some point, has slung an arm over Mickey’s shoulder, the darkhaired boy seemingly amused by the possessive gesture. Jacob’s hovering behind Alicia awkwardly and Ian doesn’t miss the way his hand is trembling when he and Mickey shake – which is lame, and Ian tells them both so, receiving a double “fuck off” and a laugh from Alicia. He touches his brother’s shoulder gently when Mickey and Alicia start catching up again and Jacob offers him a grateful smile.

“You’ll be fine, man. She’ll probably turn the charm on, like Mickey did. Mom and Dad are gonna love her.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, little brother.”

“Not that little,” Jake mutters, the way he always does, and he smacks Ian’s hand away irritably when he moves to muss his hair. “Don’t you even fucking dare. Do you know how long it took me to get this shit under control?”

“Longer than it should have,” Ian laughs and Jacob punches him on the arm, before he leads Alicia into the kitchen, where their parents are pretending that they aren’t lurking. “So,” Ian drawls, once he and Mickey are alone again, “What was that you were saying, about how not everyone from the Southside knows each other?” Mickey flips him off, rolling his eyes, and Ian chuckles. “Mhm. That’s what I thought.” He can’t resist pressing a swift kiss to Mickey’s cheek, even though it makes the other boy shoot a nervous glance towards the kitchen and rub at the wet patch on his cheek.

“Fuck was that for?” he mutters and Ian hums, dropping another kiss to the top of his head.

“For being on your best behaviour. For talking baseball with my dad. For not copping an attitude with my mom.” Mickey allows himself to be drawn into a one-armed hug. “For being here at all,” Ian finishes quietly and Mickey huffs, tucking himself further into his side.

“Course I’m here,” he grumbles, gruff in the way Ian’s come to know means he’s having trouble expressing himself, which is fine with him because Mickey’s still _trying,_ “You asked me to come.” There’s an innuendo in there that Ian would have made a joke about if the doorbell hadn’t of rung again; the sentiment of Mickey doing something that makes him uncomfortable just because Ian asked him to isn’t lost on him either. Mickey pulls away as Clayton emerges from the kitchen, tugging at his collar and already looking pained.

Oh, tonight’s going to be a fucking _joy._

\--

Dinner’s exactly as much of an ordeal as Ian had thought it was going to be, but not for the reasons he’d predicted.

Lucy’s had three couples cancel on her, so the only people who show are Clayton’s boss, his wife, their son and the Biedermeiers and their daughter. Mickey’s sat next to him, freaking him out with how faultlessly polite and charming he’s being, now that he’s become a little more comfortable. Jacob was drawn early on into what looks like the most boring conversation with Clayton’s boss and his preppy son. His preppy son who keeps glaring at Mickey, who’s busy delighting Lucy and Mrs. Biedermeier with some of his tamer stories about his co-workers at the auto shop. Ian thinks it might have something to do with the fact that he gave the guy a handjob in the bathroom during the last dinner party and it might have meant something more to him than it did to Ian, but fuck him. He drapes an arm across the back of Mickey’s chair pointedly. He’s been amusing himself with watching Mrs. Biedermeier’s daughter, Claire, make eyes at Alicia, which Jacob seems oblivious to. Alicia seems to be struggling to hold in her laughter. Clayton excused himself five minutes ago and he's been hiding out outside since.

“Mickey, sweetheart, would you mind terribly fetching Clayton from the garden?” She asks the question so sweetly, Ian doesn’t think Mickey could have refused her if he’d tried. He thinks Mickey’s untrained ears probably didn’t pick up on the ice hidden under the sugar. He’s about to ask why she didn’t ask him to do it but she continues before he can. “Ian, honey, help me in the kitchen, please.” He and Mickey both push their chairs back from the table and Jacob levels him with a glare of envious fury. Ian flips him off cheerfully as he ducks into the kitchen after Lucy.

“I’m going to throttle your father in his sleep,” she hisses as she whirls around the kitchen like a hurricane, leaving obsessive cleanliness instead of destruction in her wake, “I’m in here trying to entertain _his_ colleagues while he hides outside like a _pussy..._ ” Holy fuck, he’s never heard her curse before. Ian tries valiantly to hide the smile tugging at his lips, because his mother is liable to go Hannibal Lector on his ass and serve him to her guests if she finds any trace of amusement on his face. Lucy looks frazzled as she turns to him, hands on her hips, blue eyes wild and her hair a frizzy mess. “Thank _god_ for Mickey. I don’t know how your boyfriend managed it, but he’s charmed the pants off of Mrs. Biedermeier.” Who is a notoriously cranky old bitch. “You did good with him, Ian. Hold onto him.”

“Yeah, I intend to, Mom,” he murmurs, smiling softly now. Lucy reaches out to brush her knuckles across his cheek gently, returning his smile, before she’s back into business mode. Her death-by-cyanide-rictus, blindingly white faux-smile is fixed firmly in place again as she collects a tray of...fancy little...somethings. He doesn’t actually know what they are but he wants to shove like, six of them in his mouth. Ian finds the balls to snatch one off the tray before she goes, not missing Lucy’s twitch. Christ, he thinks he can actually see a vein in her neck throbbing. These parties are so bad for her health.

“..and so _I_ said...”

He fucking hates Clayton’s boss’ work stories. They are, quite possibly, the most boring anecdotes that have ever existed. Jacob must have had to stomach half a dozen already, and Ian would have sympathy for him – having been stuck next to the insufferable windbag last year, and having spent almost the entire dinner disgusted/fascinated by the sheen of sweat above the man’s thin top lip – if it wasn’t so fucking funny. Jacob’s attempt at a smile is the most pained grimace he’s ever seen. Even Alicia needs to excuse herself to the bathroom, presumably to laugh her ass off. Ian can’t blame her if that’s what she’s doing. They trade a grin as he passes her on his way back to the table. He notices immediately that Mickey and Clayton aren’t back yet and that Lucy’s on the verge of homicidal. His ass hasn’t been planted back on his seat for an entire minute before Ian decides to spare his mother a life sentence.

“I’ll go see what’s taking Dad and Mick so long.”  

Jacob picks up his knife and mimes stabbing him when Clayton’s boss turns away.

Ian slips out the back door, closing it quietly behind him. And he stops dead. Blinks a few times to make sure that what he’s seeing is real. Then he starts laughing. The belly-laugh bursts out of him, loud enough to startle the two sitting on the deck, Mickey nearly dropping his cigarette. Clayton’s dangles from the side of his mouth and Ian can’t believe his father is fucking _smoking._ All the times he’s chewed Ian out for having such a “filthy habit” and the asshole’s sitting on the deck and blowing smoke rings with Ian’s boyfriend, of _all_ people.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he practically cackles, “Mom’s about to go on a fucking murder spree and you assholes are sitting out here havin’ a fuckin’ smoke.”

“Language,” Clayton tries weakly, but even he knows it’s a lost cause, judging by his heavy sigh and the way he stubs out his cigarette. Mickey’s just casting guilty glances between the two of them, his shoulders hunched. Ian takes pity on him when he swipes at his bottom lip with his thumb, which Ian knows is his anxiety tell. He settles down next to Mickey, their sides pressed together, just as Clayton climbs to his feet. “I’d better, ah...” He gestures towards the door and Ian smirks, arching a brow. “Please don’t tell your mother about this.” Are Clayton’s parting words. Ian waits til the door slides closed behind him.

“So, were you and my dad like, bonding or...?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grumbles, frowning down at his shoes and taking another drag. Ian knows he’s fucked up, that Mickey’s about to withdraw, so he slings an arm over his shoulders and drops a kiss to the top of his head. “Hey, I don’t care if you were. I’m actually really glad that my parents like you?” Ian laughs when Mickey’s head snaps up, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead.

“They fuckin’ do?”

“Um, yeah? Holy shit, my mother _just_ told me you were a keeper like, five minutes ago, man. You’re the first boyfriend I’ve had that actually likes baseball, and the Sox no less. Dad was going to like you no matter what.” Mickey still looks doubtful, so Ian purses his lips and thinks on what he can say to convince Mickey. “...My dad didn’t think twice about your tattoos, ‘cus he used to be a Southside Gallagher, and I’ve been told that Southside Gallaghers don’t fuck around.”

“I know Grammy Gallagher don’t fuck around,” Mickey mutters, a faint smirk crossing his lips for the briefest moment. Ian hums in agreement and continues.

“My mom had a two-second freak out about them, and she probably convinced herself that you were gonna be some kinda violent thug—“

“I _am_ a—“ Mickey starts to interject but Ian stops him with a sharp pinch to the shoulder and a disapproving cluck of his tongue.

“But then you charmed the _fuck_ out of her at that dinner table. You put in all that effort to be polite and shit, and to make conversation or whatever. And she told me that I did good with you. And you know what, asshole? I did. I did do good with you. I did fuckin’ _great_ with you.”

Mickey’s flushed right down his neck, right up to the tips of his ears, and he’s squirming in obvious embarrassment. Ian thinks, for a moment, that he’s messed up. He’s shown his hand too soon, ruined all their progress by getting too fucking clingy or something like that, that’s he made Mickey uncomfortable. But then Mickey lays his head on his shoulder with a heavy sigh, eyes falling closed and cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. “You’re not so bad yourself, Gallagher.” He turns his head when Ian nudges at his cheek with his nose, their lips brushing lightly. “’m glad your parents like me. Wanted ‘em to,” he admits in a hushed voice.

Ian kisses him then, slow and lingering in a way that makes Mickey sigh sweetly against his mouth, has the dark-haired boy dragging his teeth gently over Ian’s bottom lip. “Thank you,” he murmurs and Mickey just huffs, pulling his head away reluctantly.

“We should probably go inside.”

Ian agrees, because Lucy’s most likely still ready to commit murder, but neither of them can resist leaning in for another quick peck before they haul themselves to their feet. They shove each other playfully for a minute, Mickey throwing an elbow into his gut and making him grunt. “Stay in your fuckin’ lane, Gallagher,” he snickers as Ian hip-checks him out of the way, sending him staggering to the side a few steps. Their easy grins don’t last very long.

The dining room’s in complete fucking chaos, and Ian identifies the source immediately. Frank’s standing on the table, swaying dangerously on his feet, booze spraying everywhere from the open bottle in his hand as he gesticulates wildly. He’s ranting about something – “You ungrateful little _prick,_ Clayton, you were always Mother’s favourite!” – and Clayton’s trying desperately to yank him down, to no avail. He recoils when Frank spits at his boss, the man spluttering and his face exploding into a blotchy red colour immediately. Ian’s frozen in horror, too shocked to do anything else but watch the man usher his family out of the room. He hears the front door slamming even over Frank’s enraged slurring. Beside him, Mickey whispers a bemused, “What the fuck...”

Lucy’s raised voice catches Ian’s attention and his eyes widen when he sees exactly who it is that his mother’s losing her shit at.

It’s fucking Monica.

It’s fucking _Monica_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy that cliffhanger, guys.


	10. The Dinner Party, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exciting conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I start my classes for the semester tomorrow, so I'll probably be updating once every week, probably Mondays, from now on! Hopefully, this chapter tides you guys over for another week :)

Monica is in his fucking house.

What the fuck. What the _fuck._ “What the fuck!” Ian roars, darting over to the two women when Monica lunges towards Lucy. Jacob wraps his arms around the blonde woman’s torso, Monica struggling in his hold and spitting insults that make his little brother cringe. Ian places himself firmly between his mother and Monica, lip curled in a silent snarl. Mickey’s still right beside him, turning to make sure a shaken Lucy is alright. It’s a sweet gesture that would usually have Ian’s heart melting, but he’s seconds away from fucking headbutting his biological mother, so good feelings aren’t exactly abundant at the moment. He feels slightly sick when Monica’s ugly sneer melts right into a warm smile when she realises just who’s standing in front of her.

“Oh, my Ian,” she breathes and Ian’s stomach is definitely churning now. Frank and Clayton are screaming at each other now, the way he remembers from being seven and huddled at the top of the stairs, but it sounds like background white noise. His blood’s roaring in his ears. “My baby, look at you! So handsome—“

“Shut the fuck up, Monica!” he snaps, fighting to keep the rage shimmering beneath the surface at bay, “You need to fucking leave, right now.” Monica’s face crumples and she opens her mouth to protest, reaching for him just like she had when she’d seen him the last time, before Clayton had sent him to his room. He smacks her hand away from his face and interrupts whatever pathetic plea she was trying this time. Last time it had been that she loved him, she’d made a mistake, she wanted her baby boy back. Ian doesn’t want to hear any of that shit again. “Get the _fuck_ out, and take your drunken excuse for a husband with you.”

“No, no, no!” Monica blurts out, a desperate edge to her voice, “No, you don’t understand, honey! We’re here—Franky and I—we’re gonna take you _home_ —“

“I _am_ home—“

“—get to meet your brothers and sisters—“

“My brother’s right fuckin’ here—“

“—take you away from all these awful people!”

“The only awful people here,” Ian grits out from between clenched teeth, hands balled into fists at his sides. He’s actually _shaking_ with rage. Monica’s watching him with huge brown eyes, sparkling with hope. It’s fucking repulsive. Bile burns the back of his throat. “The only awful people here,” he has to try again because he’d had to stop to choke back a frustrated scream, “are you and—“

“Frank!” Mickey snaps abruptly, as if on cue. They all turn to watch as Mickey strides over and rips Frank’s hands away from where they’d wrapped around Clayton’s throat. Fuck, Ian feels like shit for not having noticed that their argument had escalated to that, for not stepping in. Ian wishes that they hadn’t put Sarge in the kennel for the night, because he would’ve ripped Frank to fucking shreds. He feels a vicious sense of satisfaction when Mickey socks Frank in the gut, then twists Frank’s arm in what has to be a fucking _agonising_ way before he frog-marches him out of the room, the drunken man yelling abuse all the while. Lucy offers Monica one last contemptuous glare before she rushes to Clayton’s side, rubbing his back as he coughs. Alicia’s materialised at Jacob’s side, apparently having escorted the appalled Biedermeiers out of the house as well, and she’s giving Monica the most poisonous glower Ian’s ever seen. It could probably drop a grown man.

“Time to go, bitch,” she growls and Ian didn’t think he’d ever actually be afraid of a five-five teenage girl but Alicia’s changed his opinion on that matter. He definitely doesn’t want to end up on her shitlist, like Monica apparently has. Alicia looks like she’s seconds away from _knifing_ the older woman. “Fuckin’ _move._ ” Jacob drags Monica out of the room by her arm, his murderous-looking girlfriend hovering at his shoulder all the while, and Ian tries to ignore the pitiful, kicked dog look Monica’s levelling at him. The twinge of guilt he feels is enough to make his stomach lurch painfully. He hears the front door slam, a bottle smash, then the familiar sounds of Frank and Monica screaming at each other outside. One of his neighbours is probably going to call the cops. Fuck. What a fucking disaster.

Mickey comes stalking back into the room, obviously fuming, but his face softens when he sees Ian. Ian, who’s still shaking, but it has nothing to do with being angry now. No, all the fight had rushed out of him as soon as Monica was out of sight. Now he’s just shaking apart, all the carefully crafted parts of himself splintering and drifting apart. Mickey wraps his arms around him and Ian lets himself slump against the shorter boy, lets Mickey hold all his broken pieces together. “Fuck,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes closed. Mickey rubs firmly at his back.

“...this is actually one of the least eventful Gallagher parties I’ve ever been to.” Everyone turns to look incredulously at Clayton then, and he offers them all a sheepish smile and a shrug. “He stripped me and duct taped me to the ceiling on my eighth birthday and hit me with a car on my seventeenth. This was nothing.”

Lucy, incredibly, is the first one to start laughing. Once she starts, it seems to be infectious, because Mickey snorts and dissolves into laughter, too. That starts a chain reaction, each of them collapsing into near hysterics, even though this isn’t funny at all, not really. Ian figures Lucy would be inconsolable if she wasn’t laughing so hard, so it’s probably for the best. The sound of glass shattering sobers them all up instantly though, Lucy letting out a sharp cry and Mickey spitting out a curse. Ian’s the first person to spot the broken window, and the rock that’s been thrown through it, and he can’t stop himself from ripping open the front door, despite Lucy’s protests. A surprised Monica, her fist raised as if to hammer on the door, staggers back a little bit. Ian shoulders her out of the way as a smile spreads across her face – yeah, because he’s fucking out here to invite her back in for a fucking cup of tea – and strides purposefully towards where Frank is standing in the middle of the street, ranting and raving.

“...can’t even lend his older brother a lousy few grand! What a selfish fucker! With his fancy fuckin’ h-house,” Frank hiccups, doubling over for a moment and pressing a fist against his mouth. Ian’s pretty sure he’s about to empty the contents of his stomach. His shoulders jerk as he gags and Ian’s lip curls in disgust.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Frank,” he hears Mickey snarl and he throws an arm out to stop his boyfriend, who arches an incredulous brow. Ian just shakes his head, conveying his message silently; _I got this._ Mickey takes a reluctant step back, but he trusts Ian enough to let him handle this, evidently. Lucy and Monica are yelling at each other, Alicia and Jacob trying to get between the two women before the fight can escalate again. _Too late for that,_ he thinks bitterly when Lucy slaps Monica across the face and Jacob has to grab Monica again before she can retaliate. Clayton, meanwhile, seems torn between dealing with his brother or placating the neighbours, who have all emerged to gawk at the spectacle. “If you’re gonna do somethin’,” Mickey mutters, casting a nervous glance around the street, “Do it before the fuckin’ cops show up, huh?”

Ian doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first punch catches Frank by surprise. His head snaps back and Ian hears the satisfying crunch of bone as his nose spurts blood. It’s hot on his knuckles, which ache a little. It feels good though, the punch felt good, the adrenaline thrumming through his veins feels _good._ Nothing like shedding a little blood to make a guy feel alive. “Fuck!” Frank bawls and a surprised bark of laughter is ripped out Mickey, who swallows it quickly. Ian swings again, Frank not having recovered fast enough to avoid the solid right hook. He staggers back, sways on his feet, and he would’ve fallen if Clayton hadn’t grabbed a fistful of his grubby flannel and dragged him upright.

“You need to leave, Frank,” he says quietly, and Ian’s never heard this from his father before, this low, _dangerous_ tone, “You need to leave, right now.”

“Or what?” Frank spits, blood splattering Clayton’s cheek, “You’ll sic your fuckin’ pitbull on me again? Should report that little fucker to the cops, tell ‘em he _assaulted_ me without provocation.” Ian does have to admire the man’s odd kind of eloquence, even while he’s slurring something awful.

“Without—you _ruined_ my wife’s dinner party, you _trashed_ my dining room, you threw a _rock_ through my window and you called me a pansy-ass cunt because I won’t give you ten thousand dollars for you and Monica to blow on drugs. I think _my_ son had plenty of _provocation._ ”

Ian doesn’t miss the emphasis, and neither does Frank either, apparently, because his expression goes stone-cold in a second, his lip curling away from bloodied teeth.

“You _are_ a pansy-ass cu—“

Frank doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Clayton’s fist cracks against his jaw so hard Ian swears he heard it break. Judging by the way Frank’s howling and clutching at it, it just might have. _Huh. Go Dad._

“Holy fuck!” Mickey exclaims, sounding fucking delighted, “Best dinner party ever, holy _shit.”_

It’s certainly shaping up to be the most eventful dinner party they’ve ever had. Clayton leans down to hiss something into Frank’s ear, and Ian can’t help his smirk when he sees how the man flinches. Damn right. Frank hauls himself to his feet, swaying even worse than he was inside, and he bellows for Monica as he begins to stagger off down the street. Ian jumps when Mickey lets out a choked, “Ey!” and he feels thin arms wrap around his middle. He half twists around and gets a faceful of blonde hair, face immediately screwing up in disgust. He doesn’t get to shove Monica off, to tell her where to go, ‘cus she doesn’t hang on for long enough. He watches, leaning into the hand Mickey places on his lower back, as she goes running off down the street after Frank.

“What a fuckin’ night,” Mickey grumbles under his breath and Ian grunts in agreement. “C’mon, man, let’s go back inside. Wanna see if we can salvage any of the fuckin’ food. Fuckin’ starving.”

That startles a laugh from both Ian and Clayton, the latter’s voice still raspy after Frank’s attempt at choking him out, and Ian appreciates what Mickey’s trying to do. Well, what he thinks he’s trying to do. Mickey’s probably serious about the food, judging by the way he’d sucked down Lucy’s hors d’oeuvres before this shitshow. It doesn’t feel like it was only fifteen minutes ago, maybe less, that he and Mickey were sitting pressed thigh to shoulder out on the deck. Monica’s presence, more so than even Frank’s bullshit, seems to have drained him, emotionally more than physically. He’s too wired after throwing those punches at Frank, can feel himself trembling a little. Ian reaches back, grabs Mickey’s hand and sighs quietly when Mickey slots their fingers together automatically. The tremors subside a little when Mickey rubs his thumb back and forth gently. They turn and head back towards the house, Clayton trudging after them with a wave to their shell-shocked neighbours. Lucy, Jacob and Alicia have already gone inside and he’s expecting to hear Lucy furious or distraught, not... _laughing._

But there she is, sat next to Alicia on the couch in the living room, laughing at something the girl’s saying. Jacob’s slumped in an armchair, practically asleep, and there’s a recording of a Sox game, one of Clayton’s favourites, playing on the TV. Lucy notices them hovering awkwardly in the doorway and waves them in, her grin not faltering. “I ordered pizza,” she informs them when Mickey and Ian have piled onto the other couch, Clayton dropping down on her other side and wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “It should be here soon. You boys can go on upstairs if you’d like, and I’ll call you down when it gets here.”

Ian arches his brows questioningly at Mickey, who bites his lip for a minute before giving a tiny nod. Of course, Mickey’s probably had his fill of polite social interactions for the night. He’s reluctant to leave Lucy, in case she’s waiting to be alone with Clayton to have a breakdown, but he needs to be a good host – and boyfriend – and take care of Mickey. Ian catches Jacob’s eye and his little brother gives him a Look; _go on, I got this._ So, with a kiss to his mother’s cheek and a nod shared with his father, he retreats upstairs, an obviously relieved Mickey in tow. He collapses onto Ian’s bed with a groan as soon the door’s shut behind them, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he whines, actually fucking whines, “Why’s Frank always gotta fuckin’ ruin everything?” It’s a rhetorical question, one Ian’s been asking himself for the last twenty minutes, and Clayton’s probably been searching for the answer to for as long as he’s been alive. “They liked me. Your parents fucking _liked_ me, and he fuckin’ ruined—“

“He didn’t ruin that,” Ian interrupts quietly, settling beside his boyfriend on the bed. Mickey peeks out from between his fingers, looking sceptical. “He didn’t,” he repeats, firm now. “They still like you. I still like you. In fact, I think I like you _more_ now.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh, lets Ian pull his hands away from his face, and accepts the brush of Ian’s lips against his own without protest. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs, lashes tickling Ian’s cheek. “How much more?” Mickey sounds a little breathless as Ian presses open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and down his neck, popping the top button on his shirt so he can scrape his teeth over his clavicle.

“Mm, a lot more,” he mumbles, lips and teeth worrying a mark right below the hollow of Mickey’s throat, the other boy’s breath hitching in his throat as he clenches a fist in Ian’s Henley. Ian shuffles forwards on his knees, bracing a forearm on the bed so he can lean down over Mickey without straining his back too much. He sighs happily when Mickey tangles the fingers of his free hand in his hair, tugging gently like he always does.

“Not fuckin’ doin’ anything with your parents downstairs, Ian,” Mickey says, the desperate edge in his voice at odds with his words, and he doesn’t complain when Ian slips a hand up his shirt, rubs up and down his side. Ian drops a sweet kiss to Mickey’s chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and Mickey squirms. “’m serious, man,” he protests weakly, even as he pulls Ian’s head up for a proper kiss, licking quickly and hotly into the redhead’s mouth. The kiss is sloppy and too hard, but Ian wouldn’t have it any other way; he can’t resist digging his thumb gently into the corner of Mickey’s mouth, just to get him to keep it open wide. The sounds Mickey’s starting to make are fucking filthy and knowing his parents are just downstairs, could come up at any minute, should be a turn-off but the knowledge is having the opposite effect. His hips give a little, involuntary jerk, searching for some kind of friction but finding none. His jeans are starting to feel a little too restrictive and Mickey’s have to be too, if his obvious bulge is any indication. Fuck, Mickey’s so fucking hot. Ian kind of wants to wreck him.

“We’ll be quick,” he promises, once they’ve pulled away to breathe, and Mickey just squeezes his eyes closed with a groan.

“ _Fine!_ ” he snaps, not really irritated about this turn of events; he’d have punched Ian in the kidney and told him to fuck himself if he really wasn’t in the mood, Mickey’s not some shy, shrinking violet about that shit.

Now that he’s got the okay, Ian swings a leg over Mickey so the outside of his thighs are pressed against the inside of Mickey’s. Mickey rocks up against him immediately ( _not doing anything, my_ ass) and Ian lets his head drop to rest on Mickey’s shoulder with a sigh that sounds like it was punched out of him. He’s only been a week without this but it feels like so much longer. All he could think about every night this week was being inside Mickey, having his heat wrapped around him, even just having him in his arms as he drifted off to sleep. They’d gone from seeing each other practically every day during summer to seeing each other _once_ in a week, and it was only going to get worse. The thought makes him clutch Mickey tighter, grind down against him more frenziedly. “Fuckin’ missed you,” he breathes, tugging Mickey’s earlobe between his teeth gently and revelling in the soft moan it draws from Mickey.

“Missed you, too,” Mickey says around an urgent gasp as Ian wriggles a hand underneath him to squeeze his ass. “Fuck, missed touchin’ you.” Ian stutters out a moan when it’s Mickey’s turn to grab _his_ ass, two-handed and firm. They continue to roll their hips together, frantically, for a few more minutes and Ian can feel the familiar heat building in his stomach. He’s not ashamed about whining when Mickey shoves him back, but he needn’t have worried.

“Lay back, ‘gainst the pillows. _Now,_ Ian,” he grinds out when Ian doesn’t move, doesn’t comprehend the order quickly enough. Ian scrambles to do as he’s told then, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. He doesn’t know what Mickey’s planning but he can see the slight hesitation to his movements, can see the gears turning in his head.

“Wha...Mick, what’s...what’re...” he manages to pant out but Mickey silences him with another searing kiss, his usually deft hands fumbling with Ian’s jeans. Ian reaches down to help him and gets his hands smacked away.

“Let me,” Mickey grunts, pressing his lips against his cheek as he yanks Ian’s jeans and boxers down in one go, down to his mid-thigh. Ian’s head drops back with a groan when Mickey takes him in hand, gives a few almost tentative tugs.

“Fuck, Mickey, don’t fuckin’ tease me,” he warns, effect of the implied threat absolutely ruined by how hard he’s breathing.

“Not gonna fuckin’ tease you, asshole, gimme a fuckin’ minute!” Mickey grumbles, slapping Ian sharply on the thigh and making him yelp. He breathes deeply through his nose, eyes fluttering closed for a minute, and Ian realises what he’s about to do only seconds before he does it.

“Oh, fu- _uck!”_ he gasps as Mickey takes him into his mouth. He barely keeps his hips from jerking up and he’s expecting Mickey to hold his hips down so he doesn’t choke him if he can’t control himself. But Mickey doesn’t, Mickey just keeps bobbing his fucking head and swallowing around him as he takes him in, more and more and more and— “You don’t have a gag reflex, fuck, _fuck,”_ Ian practically wheezes out and Mickey peeks up at him from beneath his lashes, smirking around him. “Fuck, that’s so fucking hot, you’re so fucking hot, Mick, shit,” he babbles, carding gentle fingers through dark hair and resisting the urge to grab on and hold Mickey in place while he—fuck, he’s not gonna last long like this.

They haven’t done this before, well, _Mickey_ hasn’t gone down on _him_ before. Ian’s given him plenty of hummers but he’s always assumed that Mickey blowing him was something he was going to have to work for. Get Mickey wasted or stoned, butter him up with food or Seagal movies, _something._ He’d thought maybe Mickey had been reluctant because it was “too gay”, or because he hadn’t ever given one before, or because he was bad at them. But holy shit, he’s definitely done this before, and he’s definitely good at it. This might just be the best fucking blowjob Ian’s ever gotten. He’s going to ignore the irrational sting of jealousy that comes with the thought that he isn’t the first guy Mickey’s ever done this for, instead focusing on chasing the orgasm he can feel building; his toes and fingertips are practically fucking tingling and the fire in his gut is raging out of all control now. He nearly _sobs_ with frustration when Mickey pulls off.

“You just gonna lay there, Gallagher?” Mickey demands, smirk on his face and eyebrow arched in clear challenge. Ian wants to shoot something snarky, or even vaguely intelligent, back but his eyes basically roll back in his head when Mickey starts to almost absent-mindedly jerk him off while he waits patiently for an answer to his questions. “Well?” Mickey drawls, bending his head to drop a kiss to Ian’s head.

“Wanna fuck your mouth,” Ian blurts out and Mickey lets out a heartfelt groan of agreement, not hesitating before taking him in again. Ian doesn’t have any qualms about rocking up into that wet heat this time and he comes embarrassingly quickly, after only a few thrusts. Mickey’s name comes flying out of his mouth in a strangled shout that’s far too loud but he doesn’t give a single fuck when he feels Mickey swallow around him. Ian curls his fingers around the other’s thighs and yanks him up into his lap, surging up so he can shove his tongue back into Mickey’s mouth, taste himself on his tongue. Something feral and possessive in him preens, fucking purrs in contentment when Mickey rocks in his lap with an absolutely _filthy_ hybrid of a whine and a whimper.

“Ian,” fuck, he’s practically begging, “ _Please_.”

“Gonna take care of you, Mick,” he promises, popping the button on Mickey’s jeans and wriggling a hand inside, Mickey whining again and pushing his hips up into the touch. His mouth finds a particularly appealing patch of pale skin on Mickey’s neck and he starts to suck a dark mark, throwing their usual rule when it comes to hickeys out the fucking window. Mickey doesn’t seem to mind, if how hard he’s pulling Ian's hair between his fingers is any indication. “Gonna take such good care of you, baby.” The word slips out, unbidden and unnoticed by the redhead, but Mickey tenses as he comes with a hoarse shout Ian thinks might have been his name. He moans weakly in protest as Ian pumps him a few more times, clearly oversensitive.

“Fuck, Ian, so fucking good,” Mickey mumbles, pressing his face into Ian’s neck, and Ian hums in agreement, one arm wrapping around Mickey’s waist and the other reaching for his handy box of tissues. He cleans them up best he can, albeit lazily, and Mickey’s fully slumped against his chest by the time he’s done.

“Look at you,” Ian chuckles, pressing his face into Mickey’s hair and breathing deeply, “You’re so sleepy. You aren’t gonna make it to pizza.”

“Fuck you, I can always make it to pizza. I’m a slut for free pizza.”

Mickey does make it to pizza. Miraculously, they manage to avoid looking like they were just having incredible sex, even though Ian’s absolutely positive that his family knows that’s exactly what they were doing. Jacob’s smirking at him, like the smug little motherfucker he is, and Alicia keeps nudging Mickey and whispering to him, her smirk complimenting Jacob’s perfectly. _Shit, these little assholes were made for each other._ They all help Clayton clean up the dining room after dinner, while Lucy finishes putting away all of the leftover food. Ian knows for a fact that Mickey’s going home tomorrow loaded up with Tupperware containers, Alicia too, probably. It’s almost midnight by the time Lucy and Clayton retire upstairs, the four teenagers electing to watch Lethal Weapon before bed. Jacob ends up carrying Alicia up to bed when she dozes off against his shoulder and Ian can’t keep the smile off his face when he notices the way his brother looks at the girl. The little shit’s totally in love; Ian’s gotta give Alicia props for being able to tame his little brother’s womanizing ways.

Mickey waits at the foot of the stairs while Ian finishes shutting off the TV and straightening the living room up on instinct. Lucy hates waking up to a messy house. Ian smiles softly at his boyfriend, which makes Mickey roll his eyes, but he rocks up onto his toes to plant a smacking kiss on Ian’s lips anyway. “Time for bed, dickbreath. ‘m fuckin’ beat.”

“Hey, I’m not the one with—“

“You finish that sentence and you’re gonna wake up missing a kidney.”

They creep along the hall, wary of waking any of Ian’s sleeping family members, and close the door quietly behind themselves. It doesn’t take Ian long to have Mickey on his back, his legs hiked up around the redhead’s hips and arms wrapped around his neck. They’re rocking together lazily, kissing languidly and muffling their usual sounds against each other’s mouths; it feels different to every other time they’ve fucked, feels more intimate. Mickey looks positively blissed out with his head tipped back, eyes closed and lips parted around soft sighs, and Ian can feel a twinge in his chest. It almost feels like when he’s pushed himself too far on a run or at the gym, when his chest is tight and he can barely choke a breath out, but this feeling’s got nothing to do with overexertion. No, this is everything to do with the boy underneath him, all around him, under his fucking skin. He presses his lips to Mickey’s when he feels the familiar burn of tears in his eyes, which is fucking absurd, and Mickey’s thumb strokes tenderly at his jaw.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Mickey,” he breathes and Mickey turns his head away, flushing with something like shame, “No, fuck, look at me,” Ian demands and takes Mickey’s chin in his hand, forcing him to meet his eyes, “You’re fucking beautiful. Could look at you all day, you know that? Just spend an entire day looking at you. Still wouldn’t be enough.” He doesn’t know why he’s blurting all of this out gracelessly now, but every word of it is true. Mickey’s looking up at him with wide, wet eyes, biting his lip so harshly Ian’s sure he’s going to draw blood. He lets out a soft cry when Ian’s hips snap forward, hard, involuntarily, eyes scrunching closed and nails digging into Ian’s shoulder and scalp. Ian groans, using his grip on Mickey’s hips to pull him up higher, Mickey arching his back off the bed to help when the angle changes in a way he likes.

“So good, Ian,” he pants, “So _fucking_ good, you’re so good, make me feel so good.”

It’s fucking music to Ian’s ears. He leans down to kiss Mickey again but it’s more like they’re breathing each other’s air, panting open-mouthed against each other’s lips. Mickey surges up to kiss him when he comes, muffling what sounds like a sob, and he drags Ian over the edge with him. They lay there, exhausted and sated, Ian wrapped in Mickey’s arms until they start to stick together uncomfortably. He reluctantly peels himself away to fetch a washcloth from his en suite, wipes Mickey’s chest and his own clean and tosses the thing back towards the door when he’s done, too lazy to walk back over there. Mickey catches the boxers Ian throws at him as if on auto-pilot, wriggling into them and arching off the bed to get them over his hips. If Ian hadn’t just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of his life, his dick might have twitched with interest at the sight. But, since he _did_ , he just tugs a pair of soft pyjama pants up his legs and flops down onto the bed next to Mickey, who flips onto his side. He scoots backwards until his back is pressed to Ian’s chest, Ian wrapping his arms around him without having to think about it. Mickey might bitch about being the little spoon but he fucking loves it, Ian knows he does.

Ian’s lips find Mickey’s shoulder and he peppers the skin there with tiny kisses, rewarded with a happy sigh from Mickey. “Night, Ian,” he mumbles around a yawn and Ian presses one last kiss to the spot under his ear.

“Night, Mick,” he whispers, feeling Mickey go lax against him almost instantly, his breathing deepening and evening out. He waits until he’s absolutely positive Mickey’s well and truly asleep before he mouths the words into his skin tentatively. When Mickey doesn’t stir, Ian finds the courage to say them out loud, voice obscenely loud in the silence of the room even though he’s barely even whispering. “I love you, Mickey.” He buries his nose into Mickey’s neck, breathing in the scent of him that he loves so much, before letting himself drift into sleep.

If he hadn’t been so exhausted or fucked out, he would have noticed the way Mickey stiffened in his arms.


	11. The Lightning Bolt Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mickey's in crisis but he deals with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I humbly apologise for being behind schedule (already)!!! Classes have been super hectic and I've been sick as a dog.

Mickey’s done a lot of shitty things in his life; sneaking out on Ian’s probably pretty high up there on the list.

He feels like such a piece of shit for spending so long thinking about how he can wriggle out of the redhead’s arms without waking him, or how fast he can find and shove clothes into his backpack, or how he can jimmy the door open without it squeaking and giving him away. Mickey’d been lying awake for hours, the words _I love you_ chasing themselves around and around in his head until he was sick with it, and eventually he’d started forming an escape plan. He’d always had to know where every possible exit was when he was little, had to have at least one of them in sight at all times. That was just good survival instinct, something you fucking needed when growing up around Terry Milkovich. Good survival instinct was also never believing anyone who said the words _I love you_ to you, because they were full of shit and they wanted something from you, often something you couldn’t give. Mickey had never had anyone who wasn’t his mother tell him that they loved him, and he’d stopped believing her by age ten. His mother had loved smack, and that was it by the end.

What Ian wants from him is different. What Ian wants from him is much more dangerous. Up til now, Mickey’s been able to ignore his budding feelings for the redhead, to shove them down into that place inside of himself he pretends doesn’t exist and tell himself that he’s only allowing this level of intimacy because he gets something out of it too, because he’s given Ian what he wants and there’s nothing more expected of him. But Ian does want more, evidently. Ian wants more than Mickey can give him. He’d known, right from the minute he realised he wanted Ian all for himself, and everything that entailed, that he was going to find a way to fuck it all up. That’s what Mickey _does._ He fucks things up. He always fucks _everything_ up. Ian gave him something, and he might not even know he’s done it, and now Mickey knows that he wants something he _cannot_ give Ian, ‘cus he’s just not capable of it. So, Mickey’s going to fuck it up now, to ruin things as early as possible so he doesn’t hurt Ian even worse than he’s already going to.

He gets as far as the bottom of the stairs.

It’s Lucy that busts him, because of course is it. It would be the nicest person in this fucking house that catches Mickey trying to slink away in the early hours of the morning because he’s emotionally stunted and has a panic attack when someone who might actually fucking mean it tells him they love him. They nearly bump right into each other and Mickey watches as her face scrunches in confusion before her expression smooths out into a sunny smile he doesn’t deserve. The stab of inexplicable guilt is sharp and sudden, twisting his gut painfully. _Fuck. Fucking Gallaghers._

“Oh, Mickey! What are you doing up so early, sweetheart? It’s barely six!”

Mickey just shrugs, mumbling something about not being able to sleep and subtly trying to lower his backpack to the floor so she doesn’t see it. He does a piss-poor job of that, apparently, because her smile falters and then they’re both talking at once.

“Look, thanks for letting me stay—“

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry if we made you uncomfortable!”

That brings Mickey up short. He blinks a few times, watching Lucy wring her hands and shuffle on the spot, like she’s the one that should be nervous right now. He spares a moment to marvel over how somebody can still manage to look as put-together as Lucy Gallagher does in sweatpants and a baggy baseball jersey that clearly belongs to her husband, with hopelessly tangled curls and bare feet. Her toes are painted a bright red. “What?” he replies dumbly, genuinely unsure of what Lucy could possibly have to apologise for. If anyone needs to apologise, it’s him, since he’s the one that’s sneaking out on her kid. Lucy just looks pained, her fingers twitching at her sides, like she wants to reach for him but can’t bring herself to. Mickey’s glad she doesn’t.

“I’m sorry if all that fuss last night made you uncomfortable.” He scoffs quietly, because he’s from the _Southside_ and a little family brawl ain’t fuck-all to him, but she continues before he can say any of that. “O-Or if Clayton or I did or said something to make you feel as though you aren’t welcome. You don’t need to leave so early, sweetheart. At least let me fix you some breakfast.”

He can’t say no. Mickey literally can’t bring himself to say no to this woman, who is watching him with such earnest remorse for something she hasn’t done. His face twists in a grimace and he rubs a thumb against his bottom lip. “...I wasn’t leaving,” he settles on eventually, a bald-faced fucking lie right to her face, “Just gettin’ my stuff ready for when I do gotta head out.” The way her shoulders slump with relief has something loosening in his chest, which has been painfully tight since he heard Ian whisper those words. “Lemme help you with breakfast.” _It’s the fuckin’ least I can do._

Lucy offers him a bright smile, one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners the same way Ian’s do. It makes his chest _ache._ Mickey follows her into the kitchen, managing a weak smile when the woman starts to babble on about how pleased she is that he stayed over, blah, blah, blah. He’s kinda glad that it doesn’t look like she expects him to respond and he falls into routine easily when she points everything out in the kitchen, directs him where she wants him, explains what she wants him doing. They end up making an obscene amount of toast, bacon, eggs and fried tomatoes. And, somehow, Mickey forgets that he’s supposed to be freaking out. He starts to relax, even chuckling quietly at Lucy’s funny stories about their stuffy neighbours or about things Jacob and Ian did in their youth – his favourite story is the one where Ian got his ass grounded for flashing his ass at one of his brother’s soccer games, apparently on a dare from one of his idiot friends. Lucy, by some miracle, even manages to draw him into a conversation.

“You’ve got lovely manners, Mickey,” Lucy starts tentatively and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He looks up from where he’s prodding at a piece of bacon sizzling away in the pan and finds her smiling at him. It makes the back of his neck feel hot and he scratches at his eyebrow.

“Yeah, I, uh.” He has to clear his throat, ducking his head. “I got another job, besides the auto shop. ‘m a waiter. Gotta be ‘polite and pleasant’, or whatever.”

No one knows fuck-all about the other job that Colin’s parole skank – of all people – landed him, not even Mandy. Mickey’s never told anybody, not even his sister who he tells everything, about it, about his work at the restaurant where he has to grit his teeth and smile at people who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they saw him on the street. The job where he has to hide his knuckle tattoos and not tell rude, rich fucks to go fuck themselves when that’s all he wants to do. The job where he sucks down smokes like he’s dying with Diego during his breaks and tries not to cower like a pussy under Alice’s wrathful gaze when his manager’s on the warpath. Mickey’s the best fucking waiter they’ve got at that fucking restaurant, and it pays well. Most of the money he and Mandy had had stashed away in their New York fund had come from the restaurant, not that Mandy needed to know that. The restaurant had given him all the skills he needed to fake being a charming fucking gentleman during that dinner party, and that seems to delight Lucy.

“Would I know the restaurant?” she asks eagerly and Mickey bites his lip, considering. He rattles off the name and Lucy claps her hands together, thrilled. Apparently, she _does_ know the restaurant, which is just _great._ Mickey grimaces at the thought of Lucy coming in while he’s on shift, bringing the whole fucking Gallagher bunch with her. He doesn’t want Ian to see him like that, to see that person that he’s not. Ian doesn’t need to see that stranger wearing his face. Lucy opens her mouth, probably to tell him how much she’d love to take the family for dinner, but she doesn’t get the chance to say anything at all.

Ian comes crashing down the stairs, eyes wild and hair stuck up in all directions like he’s just shoved a fork into an electrical socket. He deflates instantly upon catching sight of Mickey sitting with his mother at the breakfast bar, hands curled around the steaming mug of coffee Lucy’d made him and shoulders hunched against the flight instinct rearing its ugly head. Mickey hates that he doesn’t hate how his first thought when he sees the redhead is about how beautiful Ian always is in the morning, especially when the sunlight spills across his face and turns his eyelashes a burnished copper colour or when he stretches and arches his back in that absolutely filthy way he has. “Your stuff was gone,” he mumbles, ignoring Lucy wishing him a good morning, and Mickey feels guilt well up, sharp and painful, in his throat. “Thought you’d left.” Lucy’s watching the two of them warily now, and Mickey thinks it would probably be impossible not to sense the tension between them. Neither of them say a word when she excuses herself, using the pretence of rousing Clayton, Jacob and Alicia. Mickey figures she’ll probably eavesdrop from the top of the stairs. “I thought you’d left,” Ian repeats, hurt and accusation bleeding into his tone now as he shuffles closer. Mickey tries not to flinch.

“Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t wanna wake you.”

He can’t look Ian in the eye but in his peripheral he can see the soft, _hurt_ expression on Ian’s face, which means he knows Mickey’s lying through his fucking teeth. Ian stops right next to him, close enough that Mickey can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. He tries not to get distracted by the sharp V of Ian’s hipbones, which is right at his eyeline now that he can’t seem to lift his gaze from his lap. He wants to run his fingers up the inside of Ian’s thighs, wrap them around his waist and pull him in so he can mouth at the obvious bulge in his boxers. Even thinking about it now, he can feel the weight of Ian on his tongue, can taste him. But he knows that would be entirely unappreciated right now. Ian’s upset, rightly so, and he’s gotta make this right, because Lucy’s unknowingly made him rethink his earlier plan of ‘break his heart to spare him heartache later’.

He can’t, he realises, he can’t hurt Ian that way. Mickey doesn’t have it in him to take this beautiful boy and break him like that, to take pieces of him that are already broken and shatter them entirely. Maybe Ian’s made him soft – no, Ian’s definitely made him soft. Fuck, if his brothers could see him now, they’d take the piss out of him mercilessly for the rest of his conceivable life. Mandy too, the bitch. But Mickey’s rapidly approaching the point of not giving a single fuck, with the way Ian’s staring down at him. His expression is so open and vulnerable, he’s really bearing his fucking soul for Mickey here. Mickey can’t stop himself from reaching up to brush his knuckles across Ian’s cheek the way the redhead’s always doing to him. Ian’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into the soft touch, sighing sweetly. “Mick...” he murmurs.

“Wasn’t gonna run out on you, Gallagher,” Mickey replies, just as quietly, and he knows it’s the truth as he says the words. He wouldn’t have been able to go through with it even if Lucy hadn’t caught him in the act. “Just couldn’t sleep. Your ginger ass is like a fuckin’ furnace.” It doesn’t seem like Ian remembers what he said last night, or perhaps he just thinks Mickey wasn’t awake to hear it, and Mickey’s sure as shit not gonna bring it up. No, he’ll just freak out about it internally later. Right now, he’ll just focus on fixing what he’s fucked up.

“Why’d you take your stuff?” Ian sounds sullen now, pouting like he’s eight instead of eighteen, and Mickey presses his smile into the skin of Ian’s stomach. Ian cards his fingers through his hair like it’s instinct and Mickey pushes his head up into the touch with a happy hum.

“Anyone ever tell you...you ask too many stupid fucking questions?”

Ian huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, you. All the time.” When Mickey glances up at him from beneath his lashes, the tension seems to have drained out of Ian; his shoulders have uncurled and he’s got that soft, sleepy look he always gets just after he wakes up about him. Mickey may or may not have printed out a picture Ian sent him – a selfie, with sunlight streaming through the curtains and casting a golden glow over his sleep-mussed hair and dopey smile – and it may or may not be shoved between the two mattresses he’s got on his bed.

“Well, maybe you should start listenin’ to me, huh?”

“I dunno, Mick,” Ian drawls, hands sliding down from his hair to cup his cheeks and tilt Mickey’s head up. He tries not to shiver when Ian leans down and grazes his teeth over his earlobe, but he probably fails miserably. “You talk a lot of shit.”

“Fuck you, man,” he chuckles, and the moment Ian brings their mouths together for a lazy kiss – that’s all morning breath and the languid swipe of Ian’s tongue against the back of his teeth – is the moment Mickey realises. Ian loves him. Ian fucking _loves_ him. This brilliant, vibrant boy who could have anyone he wanted, anyone at all, chose _him._ Ian chose him. It makes him clutch at Ian’s biceps, nails digging in probably to the point of pain and desperate, choked-off sounds escaping his throat. Ian’s brow furrows and he makes to step back but Mickey surges up and into his space, wrapping his arms around his neck to keep him so close that there’s not even a sliver of space between them. There’s nothing lazy about the way they’re kissing now, Ian’s hands gripping his waist firm and sure.

“Mickey,” Ian breathes when they break apart, noses bumping and foreheads pressed together. Mickey can feel the warm air puffing out across his face and resists the urge to wrinkle his nose – Ian’s got some nasty-ass morning breath. “The fuck was that for?”

“What, am I not allowed to kiss my fuckin’ boyfriend now?” There was a time he couldn’t imagine his mouth ever forming those words and allowing them to slip out into the fuckin’ universe, but here he is. The smile that spreads slow across Ian’s face has something warm and fond coiling low in his belly; that’s the smile that’s enough to make him forget the fear that Terry’s beaten into him, the smile that feels more like home than that house of horrors he grew up in ever has. He’s still got his arms looped around Ian’s neck and he rocks up onto his toes to tug Ian’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Can kiss you if I fuckin’ want to, bitch.”

“’Bitch,’ says last night’s bottom.”

“Likin’ what I like don’t make me a bitch,” Mickey grumbles, moving to pull away. He’s not actually irritated, but the food’s getting cold and he’d like to get this morning over as quickly as possible. Ian has other ideas, spinning them around until the countertop is digging into Mickey’s lower back and Ian’s plastered along his front. The redhead trails feather-light kisses up his throat, pauses to nibble at his earlobe, and Mickey shudders, running his hands up Ian’s arm. Fuck, Ian’s hot. Mickey loves imagining that Ian could pick him up and slam him against the wall, fuckin’ hold him up the whole time. Holy shit, there’s something wrong with him. He can’t be havin’ these kinda thoughts in old ladies’ kitchens all the time. First Aunt Rande, now Lucy...

Eventually, he finds the willpower to shove Ian away with hands planted firmly on his chest. The redhead looks put out but Mickey just rolls his eyes and flips him off, the gesture absentminded. He seats himself at the counter again, mumbling out a thanks when Ian sets a plate in front of him. “You help Mom make all this?” he inquires and Mickey shrugs one shoulder, dragging the bowl of scrambled eggs he made towards himself.

“She always make enough to feed an army?” he shoots back and Ian chuckles, shaking his head and settling in beside Mickey, their knees knocking together.

“Nah. This is only ‘cus she wants to fatten you and Alicia up. You’re gonna be taking home a fuckton of Tupperware containers of leftovers too, so be ready for that shit.”

“Language, please, Ian.”

Clayton sounds like he’s been gargling glass shards all night and Ian winces at the sound, mumbles out a contrite, “Sorry, Dad.” Mickey doesn’t even blink. He remembers Colin, after Terry had flipped his shit about a spilt beer and wrapped his meaty paws around his brother’s throat, not being able to do anything beyond choking out pitiful, wheezy grunts for a week and a half. They’d been worried Terry’d done something to fuck up his vocal chords and it took Colin almost a month to stop sounding like a sixty-year-old chainsmoker once he’d regained the power of speech. Point is, thanks to Terry’s outstanding childrearing skills, Mickey knows what someone sounds like after a fight, ‘specially one where the fucker’s tried to choke you out. That’s Clayton right now. So, he offers what advice he can.

“Suck down a spoonful of honey. Should make your throat not feel so shredded,” he mutters and Clayton’s lips quirk up at the sides. Shit, he probably knows that already, he grew up Southside, too. Ian’s blinking at him again, clearly surprised, and Mickey fidgets under the combined attention. “Or don’t,” he snaps eventually, because fuck this noise, “I don’t give a—“

He cuts himself off, because Lucy’s just floated into the kitchen with a dead-eyed Jacob and sleep-ruffled Alicia in tow. There’s something very, inherently wrong about cursing in front of Lucy Gallagher. He’s going to choose to ignore the names he heard her call Monica last night – not that the crazy bitch didn’t deserve everything she got – because there’s no way this sweet lady could have actually called anybody a slut-faced cu—

“Why aren’t you boys eating?” Lucy demands, cutting an intimidating figure at a resounding five-feet six-inches with her hands on her hips, “I would’ve thought half the food would be gone by now.”

They take breakfast into the living room, something Ian informs him is unprecedented, and it’s nice. That’s the only way Mickey can think to describe it. Spending time with the Gallaghers – the Northside Gallaghers – is _nice._ He forgets that he doesn’t belong when Ian slides an arm around his shoulders and keeps him tucked in against his side while they watch shitty Sunday morning cartoons. He gets to meet Ian’s fucking mutt after Clayton goes to collect him from the kennel and the thing takes an immediate liking to him, which is awful because Mickey’s a cat person. He doesn’t need a dog slobbering all over his face, ain’t nobody got time for that shit. He heads home at around lunchtime, despite Ian’s protests and incredibly persuasive ‘arguments’ as to why he should stay – meaning Ian grabs his dick and shoves him against his bedroom door – and Mickey does indeed leave loaded up with Tupperware containers. Lucy gives him a kiss on the cheek in farewell and it’s...not horrible. For half a second, it even feels like having a mother again. Clayton promises to take him and Ian to a Sox game sometime and Mickey agrees easily – like he’s gonna turn down free anything. He and Jacob bump fists, which manages to be just as awkward as the handshake, and Alicia goes with him as far the L, where they part ways.

Mickey’s barely walked in the door before Iggy and Tony are descending on him like the ravenous fucking animals they are, snatching some of the Tupperware containers out of his arms. Joke’s on those morons, Mickey put the shit he didn’t want on top, ‘cus he knows his brothers. Mandy’s lounging on the couch in shorts that are way too fucking short and one of his shirts, aiming a smirk that’s so smug the bitch could put the Cheshire Cat out of business at him. Mickey pointedly ignores her and dumps the rest of his loot on the kitchen counter. Iggy’s stuffing his face with some of those little quiche things Mickey had turned his nose up at and Tony’s sucking down stuffed mushrooms with relish but both of them look thrilled with the prospect of more food. It wouldn’t surprise him if they were both starving, if nobody had bothered or remembered to cook last night or this morning. Fuck, his brothers would forget to breathe if he wasn’t around to tell ‘em how to.

“Back the fuck off!” he snaps at Colin, who’s come slinking out of his room to investigate. Asshole should be at his girlfriend’s place...just like Jamie should be at home with his wife, but apparently Mickey missed the invite to the fuckin’ family reunion. Shit, he can’t remember the last time he saw his brothers all in one place, they’re all in and out of jail too much. Well, ‘cept for Iggy. Iggy hasn’t actually been to big boy prison, amazingly. Colin’s only been the once, but Jamie and Tony used to get busted all time ‘fore they had their kids. Jamie hasn’t been in the clink since AJ was born, as far as he knows. Tony’s shaping up to follow in Terry’s footsteps, with how often his dumb ass gets busted. Mallory’s only seven and he’s already missed more than half her life. Makes Mickey want to give his older brother a good kick up the ass. “What’d I just fuckin’ say?!”

“Relax, ‘fore you give yourself an apoplexy,” Colin mumbles, running a hand through his dishevelled curls and yawning widely. He knocks his shoulder against Mickey’s in a way that might be fond but also might just be him being an asshole as he joins him at the counter.

“Give _you_ an apoplexy,” Mickey mutters under his breath, glaring even as he lets Colin snatch up a container full of leftover bacon and a fried tomato. He grabs the container with the cookies Lucy had made not long before he’d left and tosses them into Mandy’s lap. She looks startled, then suspicious, but Mickey gives her a tiny smile and she softens.

“Thanks, fuckhead.”

“Whatever, slutface.”

“ _You’re_ a slutface.”

“Real mature, Mands.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Iggy.”

Mickey smacks Iggy across the back of the head for good measure, his brother whining the way he always does, and Tony guffaws with a mouthful of food. Fuckin’ _gross._ Jamie just rolls his eyes at them, like’s he’s so much better, and Colin sighs, long-suffering and weary. Mickey flops down next to Mandy, who throws her legs over his lap as soon as he’s sat down, like she usually does. Iggy turns the TV and the X-box on and they all jeer and hoot with mocking laughter as they watch Mandy annihilate him at Call of Duty. Colin ends up half-sprawled on top of him at one point and Mickey literally cannot remember the last time his family felt this much like...well, _family._

It reminds him of lazy days spent on the stoop with Colin, learning to tie his shoes or roll a joint from a big brother with hands gentle as they corrected his; of nights spent telling stories about knights and dragons and princesses and aliens to an enthralled Mandy, her icy feet pressed against his legs and her tiny fingers curled in his shirt; of Jamie carrying him around on his back when he got too tired to walk home and slumping against his brother’s shoulder, cheek pressed against Jamie’s soft, wash-worn t-shirt; of Tony demonstrating the proper way to throw a punch by rearranging the faces of boys who were giving Mickey a hard time at school; of Iggy mussing his hair and knocking their foreheads together with a laugh every time they won a fight together, blood splattered across their faces like war paint.

Mickey comes back to himself, unaware that he’d been dozing at all, when Colin accidentally throws an elbow non-too-gently into his ribs. “The fuck?” he complains, groggy, and Colin grunts.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with his fist. He looks just as disorientated and sleepy as Mickey feels and the childish action makes him look much younger. Mickey lifts his head, as heavy as it is, and takes in his siblings strewn all over the room. Iggy’s head is lolling on the couch, which is gonna give him _such_ a sore neck, and Tony’s sprawled out on the floor beside him. Mandy’s burrowed her way half-underneath him at some point, holding onto him with her knees like she used to when she was little. Fucking koala. Jamie’s nowhere to be seen but he can hear someone moving around in the kitchen, who he’s going to assume is his eldest brother. “Time is it?” Colin inquires and Mickey manages to finesse his phone out of his back pocket with as little movement as possible.

“Shit, s’only ten.”

“Fuck,” Colin groans, scrubbing a hand down his face, “Never gonna get back to sleep. Wanna smoke?”

Mickey grunts in agreement and begins to carefully extract himself from Mandy’s vice grip. His sister stirs, grumbling in her sleep, but doesn’t wake up. He shuffles into her bedroom and drags the duvet out, dumping it over the top of her, before he follows Colin out onto the stoop. Colin’s got an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and he offers Mickey the pack when the younger man settles beside him. It’s cold as balls so neither of them comment on the way their sides press together. Christ, he doesn’t know where all this ‘we’re an affectionate family unit now’ bullshit came from but it’s...not terrible. It’s tolerable. It reminds him of the way Ian’s family is with each other, his lips twitching up at the corners. His brother notices the smile but doesn’t comment, just breathes a plume of smoke out of his nose. Mickey remembers a time when he used to think that made his brother look like a dragon. He remembers wanting to be a dragon, too.

“...You love Tanya?”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to ask – well, he does, but he hadn’t had any intention of bringing this up with his brother – but Colin doesn’t look taken aback. Unflappable bastard. The blonde takes a slow drag, blows the smoke out lazily and tips his head back towards the sky before he deigns to answer. “Course I do.”

“How’d you know?”

“Just did.” Colin shrugs, unconcerned with the frustration that creases Mickey’s brow. He actually seems a little amused, eyebrow quirking upwards as he turns his head to better observe Mickey. “You’ll know, little brother.” Mickey has to roll his eyes at the tired platitude and Colin socks him on the shoulder, hard. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, shithead. I’m serious. When you find your person, you’re gonna _know._ It’s like...” Colin purses his lips, brow crinkling in thought, and Mickey waits impatiently for his brother to just spit it out. “It’s like I’d been in the dark my whole life, before Tanya. She’s my light, man.”

“...You _fag—“_

“Fuck off!” Colin laughs along with Mickey, grabbing a handful of his hair to shove him away. They both pause to take another drag, Mickey blowing his smoke at the cracked pavement beneath his feet and Colin sending his spiralling up into the night, up to the stars hidden behind a curtain of light pollution. “...Hey, Mick?”

“What?”

“Don’t let him get away, yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

Colin stubs out his smoke and claps Mickey on the back before he climbs to his feet. Mickey’s not fast enough to avoid having his hair mussed in a way that makes him feel five years old again. “Good man.”

His brother leaves him out there on the stoop, alone but for thoughts of a boy who loves him, a boy who might just be able to lead him out of the dark.


End file.
